For Fallen Souls
by nightloch
Summary: Becoming Mandos is the easiest thing Harry has ever done. It is also the cruellest.
1. Part I-I: Orestes

**AN** : After almost two years, I finally managed to pull myself together and write something. This is the rewrite of Aphelion under a new account (I am also svren). To everyone who has waited for me for so long, I thank you sincerely from the bottom of my heart for your patience and love. Your encouragement is invaluable. For everyone who is new, then welcome.

One of the things I didn't like about the original version is that I didn't go into detail about Harry's past. Thus, this story will be split into multiple parts. Part I will cover Harry's years at Hogwarts, and please be warned that things will occur differently. There will be seven chapters to it, and it is purely HP-verse. Part II will be set in LotR.

As a side note, I don't think I will ever understand wizarding logic.

* * *

 **Part I-I**  
Orestes

 _I am haunted by fury_

[x]

Harry Potter discovers magic three days before the start of primary school. Back then, he was still the good-for-nothing freak living in the cupboard under the stairs. Memories of his childhood will always be tied irrevocably with Uncle Vernon's abuse and Aunt Petunia's disdain, his life held together with little shards of truths that cut in the form of a sharp slap to the back of the head, of blistered fingers pulling up thorny plants that bite into flesh, of eyes gazing longingly at fruit he cannot not eat, of dark corners and spiders and the sensation of being buried alive in shadows, treated as dead but living still beneath a seemingly normal surface. But Harry Potter has no family and cares not to have one, and receives an education (or so it was said) at Hogwarts—a Ravenclaw, though no one quite remembers who he is, save for a few pitying glances by his late parents' former colleagues. Harry Potter is cold, callous, and anonymous. He would care little if the world burned. But it will be many years before the boy becomes anything more than a disappointment.

It will be many years before he is anything at all.

[x]

And when he is—oh, what is he? To the public, he is the hero, the Boy-Who-Lived (in the darkness with the rats and the pigs), the beloved (martyr). They loved him because he is a shield. But he is eleven years old, and by god, what chance does he have against a wizard decades his senior, without the crippling motive of morals, and many thousand times more gifted than he?

They loved him because he would die for them.

What has he not yet sacrificed, even if unwittingly, for the good of the many? His parents are dead, his childhood gone, and every summer he atones for their mistakes (dark lords are not born, they are made) in flesh and blood and tears, slaving beneath the midday sun. God, what more do they want? What more does he have left to give?

(Sometimes, he lies in the darkness and whispers to another boy lost in a world to which he never really belonged, _I should hate you. I loathe you for everything you have done for me and yet I don't. Yet I understand, because what they have done to you, they are doing to me_.)

When he is in Diagon Alley everyone wants to touch him, to marvel at him, to gawk. Children point their fingers at his forehead and say, "look, there's the boy-who-lived," and even if the tone is different, he still flinches—because they don't think he remembers, but he does. He remembers the green light, and his mother's screams, her pleads (not Harry, take me, don't kill him, please, please). They think he should love his fame, should love them (but where were you when I needed you?).

And when he sits in the Great Hall of Hogwarts, feeling bittersweetly closer to his parents, he tells the hat, "put me somewhere where I can be forgotten."

The thing is, they don't forget him.

[x]

When he saves that Gryffindor girl —Granger, he thinks her name is, that muggleborn know-it-all that keeps giving him these enthralled stares when she thinks he isn't looking— the Daily Prophet immediately hails him as some kind of Messiah. _'Boy-Who-Lived Slays Troll!'_ Draco Malfoy's nose is upturned when he says, "Think you're so great now, huh, Potter?"

He won't ever admit that the words make him feel alone. He's used to this kind of talk by now. (He encases his fragile heart in stone and let the words resort to the physical, where bones and skin can split and heal). But half the student body stares at him like Malfoy, with the distant cousin of fear and apprehension in their eyes. The other half stares at him like he hung the stars and the moon. Granger belongs in the latter half.

"Please stop following me," he tells her. He doesn't make his voice sharp, his eyes are calm and mild, but she flinches anyways.

"I just... wanted to thank you," she mumbles.

There's a long, jagged scar extending from her right cheekbone, thick as his index finger, scattering lazily beneath her hairline. A part of him viciously thinks, _you asked me what it's like to be Harry Potter. Well, now people are going to judge you based on your scar, too, and does that answer your question?_

"Anyone would have done it," he says, a little bit harsher, turning away. He begins climbing the stairs that will take him to the Ravenclaw common room. Granger seems to have picked up on some of the famed Gryffindor courage because she resolutely dogs his footsteps.

"At least let me thank you somehow."

"Leaving me alone would be more than enough. Good night, Granger." He mutters the password to the Ravenclaw door knocker, and slams the door shut before she can respond. The darkness of the corridor is soothing. The other Ravenclaws don't talk to him. He ascends to the boys' dorms. In his bed, he lies back and yanks the curtains shut. In the darkness, the air smelling faintly of dust, he can almost pretend he is back in his cupboard. There, at least, the hatred is consistent.

[x]

There's a red-headed boy with freckles that keeps approaching him.

The headmaster calls him to his office after the fifth time he rejects the boy (and if there is a sixth time, then Harry is going to get violent).

"Wouldn't you like to have a friend, Mr. Potter?"

"Frankly, sir, I'd think that it's none of your business."

[x]

On his way back from Charms, he takes a wrong turn on the second corridor and finds Draco Malfoy levitating a misty glass sphere above another boy's head. The other boy is plump, and round, and crying. A Gryffindor.

"Give it b-back, Malfoy," he's saying, except the false bravado in his voice quivers like a leaf in the wind. "My gran gave it to me."

"A Remembrall," the blonde boy sneers. "Fitting for a worthless squib like you."

Harry doesn't know what a squib is, but he knows by the paleness of the boy's pallor that it's been something he's been called so many times that he's beginning to believe it too. ( _Freak_ , aunt petunia spits. _You worthless, no-good freak_.)

Draco Malfoy, who has never wanted for anything in his life, will never understand the desperate craving of affection, the hoarding of anything that is a sign of thus. He does not know the heaviness of expectations (I will never be what you wanted). He does not know how jealously orphans guard their treasures, especially gifts from their family, from which they had been sorely deprived.

Harry turns his wand onto the ball. "Accio," he intones, remembering one of the upper-year Ravenclaws summoning something from across the room. The little ball zooms into his hand. The glass is cool beneath his grip, and he holds it out to the Gryffindor, saying, "Yours?" When the boy doesn't do anything more than shake, Harry furrows his brow and injects a little more steel in his tone. "Take it."

The boy snatches it back and cradles it to his chest. Harry lowers his hand. Draco Malfoy is flushing at being caught off-guard, even as he covers it up by lifting his chin and sneering. The Gryffindor boy flinches at the expression, but Harry speaks blandly, unaffected. "Get lost, Malfoy."

"Don't tell me you're standing up for that squib, Potter?"

"I thought you had more tact than to bully students in deserted hallways."

"I suppose it takes one to know one. I've seen how you're doing." Draco Malfoy jerks his chin at Harry's wand. "Not working well for you, is it?"

Holly and phoenix feather. The wood is always warm, and sometimes it feels wrong beneath his fingers. There is a great deal of legend and intrigue tied up with the wand. It does not feel like his own.

"If you're insinuating that I have no magic, I hope you remember that it was still enough to defeat your little lord." He hates capitalizing on his not-victory, but he's too angered to care, even if his outwards expression is implacable. Malfoy's face twists.

"Watch what you're implying, Potter. He is no lord of mine."

There's too much rage there (in the tightened eyes, the trembling fists. What ties did he have with Voldemort, to drive him to such a reaction? He files the question for later. Before he can retaliate, Malfoy stomps down the hall, shoulders stiff, robes billowing.

Harry stows his wand, flexing his fingers, and prepares to follow. Just before he is out of earshot, the Gryffindor boy calls out, his nerves squeaking in his voice, "wait!" Harry stops, listening. "Thank... thank you. For..."

Harry does not turn around, but he nods. "Think nothing of it," he says.

[x]

Disgruntled, Harry closes his book and tucks it back into his bag. He stretches his arms languorously over his head, grimacing with pleasure as his spine snaps back into position. He is researching wand lore, but Hogwarts' library is disappointingly lacking in that field. At least it is quiet, for once, without the giggles and smothered voices of other students. It is the first Quidditch match of the season today. Harry doesn't see the appeal in chasing a bunch of balls on _brooms_ , of all things, but it seems to be the only sport the wizards played.

Despite himself, he is curious. He walks to the window, which faces the Quidditch field and the black lake. There are three stands set up, several rows high, each filled to the brim by writhing students. They have all worn their house allegiances today. The Gryffindor red is directly opposite of the Slytherin green, with the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws scattered intermittently between. What a petty and childish thing, these house rivalries. It is a distraction that Harry does not understand. There are few enough wizards as it is—should they not band together? (But these are also the people that expect an eleven year old boy to defeat their dark lord for them, so Harry supposes he shouldn't hold out much hope for them).

From here, he can see the Forbidden Forest overtaking the horizon, dark and dreary (but welcoming, somehow). Beyond the green field and the players zooming around like flying gnats, the rest of Hogwarts' grounds stretch on, resplendent and crisp in the morning air. It is beautiful. The sun casts reds and blues and greens over the dew. A spider on the windowsill is spinning its web. And—

Harry's eyes widen. He drops to the floor the instant before something large, dark, and angry crashes through the glass. Shards rain over him. He shakes them out of his hair and rolls to his feet. There is a massive hole where the window once was.

It is not a large, bloodthirsty bird, as Harry had initially thought. No, it is one of the balls from the _Quidditch field_. Incredulously, Harry looked at it, then looked through the window. There was _no way_ someone could hit it that far. Which only meant—

The bludger plows through another bookshelf, heading straight for him.

It is too late to dodge. Feverishly, he throws out his wand, crying, "Protego!"

—but the wand doesn't work for him.

A second later, the bludger slams into his ribs, and he tumbles out of the open window to the ground fifteen stories below.

[x]

—wind howls forces its way down his throat trying to rip him apart—greens reds blues yellows blurring there is no distinction magic is one entity hogwarts he can feel under his fingertips—children are screaming he laughs adrenaline makes him dizzy the ground is approaching—

—some kind of barrier. It twists his neck harshly when he lands, but it breaks with a sharp, discordant shatter of glass, and he continues his descent—there is white furious blue eyes a black cloak roared words—impact.

(—black cloak, skeletal hands, whispered words: _live, master_ )

[x]

When he wakes he is numb from the waist down. His heart thumps once, hard. Before he can panic, Madam Pomfrey bustles out of her office and assures him that he is only under a stasis charm, that no permanent damage has been done.

"You are in the hospital ward, Mr. Potter," she informs him in her no-nonsense, professional tone. "How much do you remember?"

"Just falling," he says.

(It is a lie. He hears his mother screaming in his head, like she is somehow responding to the danger he is in, pleading with death itself, take me instead, spare my baby, please, please. But it's private, and makes his chest twist uncomfortably when he thinks of her, so he puts it out of his mind).

He looks to his right. Granger is holding his hand. She doesn't seem to realize she is until she feels his gaze boring a hole into the side of her head, and she winces, dropping it, folding her own hands back into her lap. Beside her, there's another figure, but he can't see without his glasses. He only recognized her by her bushy hair, something distinctive to her and Hagrid.

Granger passes him his glasses from the night table, doesn't comment when his fingers tremble slightly as he accepts it. The world comes into focus. Her large, worried eyes are staring back at him, and as he watches, she bursts into tears. The boy beside her —the Gryffindor who lost the Remembrall— stares at the crying girl with horror.

"Oh—Oh, Harry, we were so worried—we saw you—and Professor Dumbledore's spell didn't work, and _oh_ —"

He has no idea what to do with crying girls. Awkwardly, he pats the back of her hand. "I'm alright," he says, his voice slightly hoarse. "What happened?"

Granger wipes her eyes with the back of her hand and sniffs loudly.

"The bludger went rogue. No one knows why, but it just crashed into the library. We didn't know why, and then we saw someone falling, and—" Her voice trails off. Surprisingly, it is the Gryffindor boy who picks up the story in a quiet, quavering voice.

"—Professor Dumbledore and Professor Snape tried to cast some kind of spell, but they... bounced off. You just sort of slowed down a bit on your own, and then you crashed. We thought you were dead. Your neck was..." He indicates an unnatural angle with his hands. "But you were still breathing." He shivers. "I've never seen Professor Dumbledore so..."

"...furious," Granger whispers. Thankfully, she is mostly calm by now, even if her eyes are still a little red. "But... you're okay? Harry?"

"Yes," he says. "Sore, but I'll live."

She squeezes his hand again before standing up and offering him a teary smile. "Good. I'm glad. Even if you're...really cold, you have a warm heart. I owe you my life."

"Thank you for...you know, Malfoy," the other boy murmurs.

Granger frowns. "Is he still bothering you? Don't let him get to you, Neville."

"I know, Hermione," says the boy—Neville, Harry supposed. Longbottom.

"People like him bully because they want the power. If you deny them the satisfaction, they will leave you alone."

"I...I know that. But when he starts talking I just..."

 _Squib_ , the voice in his head supplements. _Freak_.

"Granger," Harry says slowly. He looks down at his right hand to see it bandaged tightly to the elbow. "Where's my wand?"

Her smile slips off her face. "It... broke, Harry."

It must have been shattered by the bludger. He'd heard stories of wizards who had lost their wands—bereft, as though a part of them had died. Harry searches inside of himself but nothing's different. Just the usual emptiness.

"It's alright, I suppose. I'll have to go to Ollivander's to get another one."

Granger gapes openly. It is an unbecoming expression, but one he is (much to his annoyance) becoming unfortunately familiar with.

"It's not that easy."

"I don't think my wand ever bonded with me. It didn't feel...right."

"Neither does mine," says Longbottom quietly. "It's... _was_ my da's."

"Maybe you ought to come with me, then," Harry suggests. "Another wand may suit you better." Seeing Longbottom's hesitance, he adds, "Won't your gran be prouder of you if you could work your magic better?"

"Yeah, I... I'll have to...think about it."

Harry accepts the answer. They lapse into a comfortable silence. Granger sits down again. She doesn't take his hand but there's something warm in her eyes, something that makes him uncomfortable and he looks away because he doesn't know how to respond (the only looks he's ever gotten are cold, harsh, and violent, and he shapes his personality around it because that's all he's ever known). For the first time, he almost doesn't mind Hogwarts.

[x]

The wand beneath his hand doesn't heat up like the phoenix and holly did, but instead, cools calmly in his touch, a welcoming cold suffusing up his arm. It feels...right, somehow. More soothing than the fire and passion that had lingered there before.

Ollivander regards him with inscrutable grey eyes. "Unyielding and firm. Fifteen and a half inches, blackthorne wood with the tail hair of a thestral. Gorgeous beast, that. Almost ran me over when I plucked it."

A trail of green sparks erupt into the air. Harry holds it to his chest and smiles (feeling safe for the first time that he's ever known).

[x]

They're not friends. But sometimes, when the Ravenclaws and Gryffindors have classes together, they sit side-by-side. Sometimes they exchange a glance across the Great Hall—Granger waves, Longbottom smiles, and Harry looks away. It's not friendship.

Even so, when Longbottom is able to get a spell on the fifth try with his new wand, he turns to Harry and his smile is so blinding with happiness that he almost feels his own mouth curving upwards.

[x]

There is a mirror in an abandoned classroom. It is golden, and tall enough that it towers far above Harry. In it Harry sees his parents. They are not drunks, like the Dursleys say. They are radiant with love, and they love him. He feels something inside of him break at the visions. He presses his cheek against the cool glass and closes his eyes, for once wishing he could feel warmth instead, a human touch.

"You don't look so good, Harry," says Hermione. He never corrected her the first time, and now she seemed to have taken it as permission to address him informally ever since.

"I'm fine," he grits out. He stabs his food with his knife harder than is necessary.

"Even I can see the dark circles under your eyes. Are you having trouble sleeping?"

"Mind your own business, Granger."

Instead of leaving, the irritating girl sits down. "Now I _know_ there's something wrong. You haven't talked to me like that since the first week of school."

He exhales through his teeth. "It is nothing. Don't concern yourself with it."

"I'm not leaving until you do."

Usually he would have been able to smother the rising anger in his chest, but he's unusually short-tempered and his head is pounding, and he hasn't really slept in two weeks so words are a jumble in his head and he just wants her to leave.

"Fine. You know what's bothering me? There's a mirror in the first floor corridor and I can see my dead parents through it. Happy? Can you leave now, Granger?"

Instead of anger, her eyes soften, and she places a gentle hand on his shoulder, not moving even when he tries to shrug her off. "Oh, Harry," she says softly. "There's nothing that can bring back the dead. Not even magic."

"You think I don't know that? It's just...I've never seen them before."

"You don't have pictures at home?"

"Pictures?" he laughs bitterly. His eyes are wide, pupils blown black. He bares his teeth in a vicious smile. "The Dursleys told me they were whores and drunks. They can't even look me in the face. You think they'd keep pictures?"

Granger flinched. "That's... I'm sorry."

"It doesn't matter. I don't care."

(But you do, whispers the voice in his head. You care so much you think you will be torn apart by the sheer intensity of it.)

Granger doesn't say anything to challenge his statement. She squeezes his shoulder one last time, then leaves the dining hall, her expression vacant and distracted.

That night, he doesn't go to the mirror.

[x]

"You know, Malfoy, if you don't want to draw attention, maybe you shouldn't act so suspicious. Wearing all black in daylight and sneaking around like that really isn't doing you any favours. Just a thought."

Malfoy's lips draw back into an angry snarl. Before he can say anything, one of his Slytherin friends calls out to him. He looks back, "Next time, Potty," before joining them. Safely ensconced within their clique, they glare at Harry suspiciously. He rolls his eyes.

"Psst—Harry!"

Granger is hiding behind a tree trunk. Longbottom is timidly trailing after her. A couple meters away from them, the red-haired boy from many months ago is staring at Harry in awe.

"Granger?" he says coolly. "Is there a reason why you're trying to become one with the tree?"

Her eyes dart furtively from side to side. Harry suppresses a groan. It seems as though, for all of their famed enmity, there really are many traits in common between the Gryffindors and Slytherins.

"We've figured out why Malfoy's been acting so suspicious," she says in a loud whisper. Pulling an unwilling but curious Harry closer, she continues, "Hagrid's got a dragon egg, and it just hatched!"

"A...dragon egg," Harry repeats in disbelief. "Does he not remember that he lives in a _wooden hut_?"

"He even named it Norbert, and everything."

"Malfoy saw," says the red-headed boy, still staring at Harry (or more precisely, his forehead). He sounds slightly dazed. "He's tryna get Hagrid in trouble. We're gonna get Norbert to my brother—Charlie, he's a dragon keeper, he can take him—tonight. You coming, mate? You're alright, for a Ravenclaw."

At least Granger has the decency to look mildly mortified. "Ronald!"

"I'd rather not, thanks. I'd also suggest that you don't either."

"Never took you for such a rule-stickler. C'mon, you're the Boy-Who-Lived. You can get outta anythin.' What's life without a little risk?"

"There's a difference between having no choice and being _idiotic_. Hagrid can tell the Headmaster himself. Why does he need to resort to the help of three first-years? He might have a blatant disregard for his health —I've seen that dog of his, and it's no normal dog— but I hope you do." Harry catches his breath, dips his head faux-courteously. "If that's all, I should be getting back. Think on it. Good day."

The next morning, Harry checks the hourglasses, and Gryffindor is in the negatives. He blows out a breath between his teeth. Of _course_.

[x]

"Mr. Potter. Are you awake?"

When Granger and Longbottom come back from their detention in the Forbidden Forest (where they are punished for breaking curfew and handling dangerous beasts by... breaking curfew and handling even more dangerous beasts. But such is wizarding logic), they are white-faced and trembling.

Harry is woken by Professor Flitwick, who is standing by his bedside with lumos on his wand. He squints at the sudden light. "Miss Granger and Mr. Longbottom are asking for you, Mr. Potter, if you are able to go to the hospital wing."

Harry sits up. He ignores the sudden spike of fear that seizes through his body (it is irrational).

"What happened?"

A shadow crosses over the diminutive professor's face, or perhaps it is caused by the lumos. "A detention gone astray, I'm afraid. If you—

Harry pushes past him and stands up. He walks very quickly to the hospital wing, stumbling over his feet a few times. He does not run. His heart is beating fast, like that time he fell out of the library window, like it's difficult to breathe.

Madame Pomfrey is standing between shadowed beds. Even in the darkness he can see the thinness of her disapproving lips. She looks to his bare feet. He forgot to wear shoes.

"Mr. Potter," she greets. "Miss Granger and Mr Longbottom are in those two beds." She gestures with one hand. Even from here, Harry can see the lumps under the blankets quivering.

"Thank you," he mutters.

He draws up a chair and sits.

"Granger. Longbottom."

A head of tousled hair from beneath the covers. Large, frightened eyes. Longbottom scoots closer to Harry. He extends a hand. After a moment's hesitation, Harry takes it and lets himself be pulled into the bed as well, between the two. Longbottom's shoulder brushes against his own, and Granger is tucked into his chest. He pulls the blankets up so it covers the three of them. They talk in whispers. Their skin is cold, even colder than his own.

"...it got Malfoy," Granger's voice is muffled by the blankets. "We were... Hagrid said there was something killing the unicorns. So we went to find what it was and there was a fork in the road, so we split up..."

"I was with Hagrid," Longbottom says. Surprisingly, his voice is low, and quiet, but steady. "Hermione went with Malfoy and Fang."

Harry shifts. "There's something strong enough to kill unicorns, and they sent _you_ lot to investigate? Are they _spare_?"

Longbottom shrugs uncomfortably. There's a burst of commotion towards the front of the ward, where the fireplace is situated. It spits out two people. One has waist-length blonde hair and is dressed in tight, shimmering robes, and the other is a blonde woman with fearful eyes.

"Where's Draco?" she demands. "Where's my son!"

Longbottom stiffens. "Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy," he whispers into Harry's ear.

Madame Pomfrey was trying to calm her down. "Mrs. Malfoy, if you would follow me—"

But the distraught woman pushes past the nurse, and barrels towards the bed where Malfoy is lying. From between Longbottom and Granger, he doesn't have a good vantage point, but Malfoy is not moving. She falls by his bedside, clasping cold hands in her own, breathing out, "Draco, Draco dear, Mummy's here, open your eyes for Mummy, okay baby?"

Lucius Malfoy is still standing by the fireplace. "I demand to speak with Headmaster Dumbledore."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Malfoy, but Prof—"

"—no need, Poppy, he will be arriving in a few moments." A new, silky voice. Professor Snape.

"Severus," says Malfoy's mother. She is an aristocratic woman, of high birth and class, but right now she is a mother whose son is in danger and she will do anything, she will relinquish her pride and beg if need be. "Severus, isn't there anything you can do?"

The potions master approaches and touches the young boy's white cheek with long, elegant fingers. He opens one eyelid, murmurs a lumos. Then he presses his hand to Malfoy's throat. He shakes his head.

"He has retreated far into his mind. I can try to pull him out, but it may damage him more. It is not a risk I am willing to take."

"There must be something you can do..."

"He is my godson, Narcissa. Do you think I would not if I could?"

By now, Dumbledore has arrived, and he stands by the door, hands clasped behind his back. His voice is calm, steady, while Lucius Malfoy's are sharp and bitter and designed to hurt. "There will be an inquiry," he says, his voice clipped. "I will find those to _pay_." His voice catches on the last word, a slight hitch of breath, almost a sob. Dumbledore ignores it politely.

Harry remains between his not-friends, not daring to move. He doesn't sleep, even as they begin to drop off, their adrenaline fading into weariness. He thinks: it could have been them instead of Malfoy, and something cold rises in his stomach at the thought. (He thinks: I don't want to lose them, too).

But eventually his tired eyes droop closed, and that is how Madame Pomfrey finds them in the morning.

[x]

There is an inquiry. The board of trustees call for Hagrid's disemployment. Harry knows both Longbottom and Granger are itching to stand up for their friend, but he pulls both of them down. "You have done enough," he hisses. "Do not draw attention to yourself."

Because Harry knows. He has always known, since that day when he saw Lucius Malfoy, and knew that vengeance was the only way the man knew how to grieve. And someone as proud as Lucius Malfoy would not set his target as low as Hogwart's groundskeeper.

No. He called into question Dumbledore's position as Headmaster. First the troll, now this, he said. How much longer are we going to let him control the safety of our children? (And Harry isn't fond of Lucius Malfoy because he does not like oily, manipulative people, but he also admits that the man is a very good orator).

There is heated debate on both side, but Harry already knows what will happen, and he has the feeling Dumbledore knows, too. He is stripped of his position and publicly declaimed in the Daily Prophet. (And this is how quickly the fickle favour of the public turns; sheep led to the slaughter, and they will praise he who holds the knife to their necks).

[x]

Third floor corridor. Fluffy the three-headed dog. There is a harp by his massive paws.

"Oh, no!" Granger moans in despair. "No, we're too late!"

Longbottom is shaking when he says, "We should go after them."

Harry fixes him with a look. "Don't be stupid," he says. "We're eleven. Whoever this is, they're definitely not a student, and that's even if they get through all of the professors' traps."

"We can't just—"

 _Gryffindors_. "Granger. You've read Hogwarts: A History."

The girl blinks. "Why—yes. I have."

"Is apparition possible inside the wards? Or portkeys, inside the castle?"

"No."

"So whoever steals the stone has to come back out here."

"Oh. Um, yes. Yes! God, why didn't _I_ think of that?"

"McGonagall should still be in her office. Can you get her to come here? With the harp as evidence, there's no way she can overlook this."

She nods sharply. "I will. Will you be... alright?"

"Yes. But hurry. We don't know how long he'll take." When Hermione nods again and disappears around the corner, he calls after her, "Also, get McGonagall to have someone do a staff inventory!"

"I will," comes the faint reply.

Then they are alone in the chamber. Longbottom edges closer nervously, eyeing the beast that is slobbering by the corner. Its snores rumble in its chest, sounding like roars. "H-Harry? That's a cerberus, isn't it?"

Harry looks at the trap door it is guarding between sprawled paws, the foot-long claws jutting mercilessly out of car-sized feet. Its entire body is the size of Number Four, Privet Drive. It would have been absolutely terrifying, if not for the sparkly collar around its neck, and the thick string of drool slipping down one side of its mouth in viscous yellow ropes.

"Yes. Guardian of the underworld. Fitting, isn't it?"

Longbottom only whimpers.

Harry thinks of the mythology. A Herculean task, indeed—penance for sins not of one own, slaving under a false king. Or perhaps Orpheus is more fitting. Orpheus, who descends into hell out of love, and dies by it. Whose music is so soul-wrenching that he is able to tame the hounds of death (to such an extent that its future progeny have the same weakness), who is able to move the god of death himself.

(Except Harry will never love the public that he was destined to save, and he will not be manipulated like this.)

"I hear something," Longbottom says suddenly. His face, if possible, pales until it is fully bleached of colour. "From the trap door. Someone's coming."

Then McGonagall steps into the room, face grim and lips pursed. Granger trails after her head of house, clutching her wand uncertainly. "Quirinus is missing," says McGonagall. "The Aurors have been informed. They will be coming shortly."

—and that is when the trap door slams open. A black, wraith-like figure swathed in shadows leaps out nimbly, landing without sound. McGonagall pushes them away, her wand already out. From the rubble she transfigures a gleaming, golden lion that is only slightly smaller than the cerberus. It roars, shaking its shining mane, and leaps at the man. Its massive claws rend apart the protective spells laced tightly over his torso and arms, knocking his hood back.

"Quirrell," McGonagall hisses darkly. She flicks her wand into the air sharply. "Lumos maxima!" The chamber is bathed in piercing white light. Harry shields his eyes and ushers the shell-shocked Longbottom and Granger towards the door.

"Come on," he mutters.

When they are five feet away, it slams shut as though pushed by an invisible hand.

"Ah, ah," Quirrell tuts. He has lost his stutter by now, and smiles like a viper ready to strike, all teeth and sharpness. "You won't be leaving that easily, my students."

"They are not your fight," McGonagall says. "Let them go."

"Ah, but they are. Harry Potter...yes, I see you."

Granger's hand clamps around his arm tight enough to bruise.

"They are children, Quirinus."

"And the old lion tries to defend her cubs." Gone is the nervous air, replaced with the gait of a predator as he glides closer, careless under the point of McGonagall's wand. "But you are not as spry as you used to be, are you, dearest Minerva?"

There is a terrifying look in her eye. She erects a shield to block his incoming attack, and the two of them begin to duel in earnest. Harry is transfixed for a moment, drunk on the power that he can feel wafting into the air, thick and heady, intoxicating. But when he hears Granger give a short whimper when a sickly yellow spell splashes onto the wall next to them, his head clears.

"Alohomora." The door does not open. Granger is shaking. "Alohomora! It's not working."

Harry glances around and determines Quirrell to be suitably distracted. "Come on. We don't want to be collateral damage." Ducking his head, he grasps both children by one elbow and half-guides, half-yanks them as far away from the duel as possible. Unfortunately, that puts them very close to the slumbering cerberus. "Stay here, no matter what happens."

"Where are the aurors?"

"Late, as usual."

From across the room, Quirrell meets his eye. A slow, sickening smile spreads on his face.

"Duck!"

But the next spell doesn't hit them.

"No!" shouts McGonagall, but Quirrell begins to press in on her in earnest, and she barely has time to defend herself against the onslaught.

The music stops. The cerberus's eye opens. Its hackles are rising. Large, lamplike yellow eyes rove the chamber, and settle on the three cowering children. Its lips draw back, and it roars. Harry tries to sing a tune under his breath, but the cerberus brushes it away. It will not fall to music twice.

"Do you trust me?" Harry murmurs in a low voice, his eyes never leaving the beast's.

Granger swallows loudly. "I... yes, Harry. What do we do?"

"I can hear the Aurors coming. They are close to the door. At my signal, you need to run to it."

"We'll never get there."

"Leave that part up to me."

Her eyes are wide as saucers. "You can't—you're not going to—"

"I'm not a Gryffindor. I have a plan. Just do your part." Harry brushes his wand against his lips and murmurs to the thrumming wood, "I need a weapon. Please." From the tip, a thin, concentrated beam of light shimmers into existence and solidifies into metal. The blade is as long as Harry's arm and the hilt is his wand. It shimmers with a cold white—not pure, only dead. Harry smiles grimly.

"Are you ready? In three, two... one!"

The two children run. The cerberus's head snaps to them, and it lifts its upper lip in a snarl, but before it can chase them Harry slashes the sword and regains its attention.

He walks closer.

"Guardian of the underworld," he says. "There is one who has entered your domain and seeks to steal the treasure you guard."

The dog does not understand. The middle head stares him down. It lowers itself until its eye is staring directly into Harry's face. He holds his breath and does not move, even as his heart is drumming in staccato. When it suddenly rises, he jerks a little, readying himself in case it strikes, but it only brings its nose to Harry and gives one long, deep sniff, making his hair fly towards the massive nostril. He has to impale the ground with his sword-wand so that he does not fly into it (and he would probably fit into a single nostril, too).

The cerberus is staring at something just above Harry's head. Whining, it lowers its head. They stare at each other for a few moments, before Harry realizes that it is asking him to climb on. He shifts his grip on his sword so that the blade is pointing outwards, and grasps a handful of surprisingly silky fur. He begins to climb, but right when he is halfway, the hair on the back of his neck stands up, and he ducks just as a massive paw flies over his head. The cerberus begins to shake itself, and it is like trying to hold onto a tree during a windstorm.

It wanted to play? Well, Harry would oblige. On the next downwards swing, he lets one of his hands slip, and sinks the sword into the dog's furry breast. It pierces through and makes it howl. Luckily, it has sunk deeply, and Harry hangs on to the hilt with both hands, desperately clinging on as his teeth are slammed together over and over from the impact. He is covered in the beast's blood. Finally, with a last dodge of the right head's teeth, it falls to its knees submissively.

"Do not do that again, or I will not be lenient," he warns the baleful yellow eye. It whines in response. "Good. Now...I believe there is something else we can do." High on adrenaline, Harry tugs his sword free and climbs onto the cerberus's middle neck, this time without resistance. When he is safely secure, the cerberus lurches to its paws, and Harry has to cling to the collar tightly. Smaller, smaller... from this height, people are so small and insignificant.

Quirrell has McGonagall pressed into the corner.

Harry raises a war cry. He plunges his sword into the air, screams "Go!"

—because discretion is out of the question when a five hundred pound beast is barrelling towards you at full speed.

Quirrell only has time to widen his eyes before a massive paw sends him careening into the wall, claws gouging a deep hole in his abdomen. "I...will not—be defeated!" he wheezes. But his spells splash off the cerberus's hide effortlessly, and the beast growls, before—

The middle head snatches Quirrell between its teeth and bites in half. It shakes itself until the lower half flies off, hitting a wall and sliding down in an ooze of intestines and fluid. Harry thinks he hears Granger screaming. He grits his teeth and closes his eyes as a wave of hot blood douses the side of his face, trickling down his hair, soaking his robes.

It is silent for a moment more.

"Dear Merlin," McGonagall gasps, holding one hand to her chest.

And then—

The cerberus falls to its knees. Harry rolls clear just as it begins spasming on the ground, its jaw open in pain. It roars, whimpers—and the middle head explodes into tissue and blood. The beast slumps, dead, as a black mist rises. It forms a face, chest, arms, contorted in anger. Harry barely has enough time to thrust out his sword before it is flying towards him in wrath, and it bisects itself into the sword and into him—cold there is someone screaming please not harry take me instead take—

He falls into darkness.

[x]

He wakes up in the hospital wing feeling even worse than last time. His dry mouth tastes of blood and acid. He sits up, feeling his head spin horribly, and gropes for his glasses. When he finds them, he slides them onto his nose and eyes the small mountain of cards, flowers, and chocolates (...was that a toilet seat?) on his nightstand and occupying the next two beds.

Madame Pomfrey comes out of her office. "Mr. Potter," she scolds, ushering him back into bed. His legs shake, and grudgingly he lets her. "You should not be up."

"Where are Granger and Longbottom?"

She purses her lips. "In classes. Mostly shaken up, but they are fine. They tried to stay with you until you woke, but Headmaster Dumbledore intervened." She softened slightly. "Your friends care for you a great deal, Mr. Potter."

He briefly thinks about telling her that they were not friends, but decides the point is moot.

"Professor Dumbledore is...?"

"Yes. The Board decided that it was safer to be—well, after all that has happened. They are saying that it wouldn't have escalated as far if a wizard of Dumbledore's status was involved." Harry wasn't so sure of that, but Madame Pomfrey nods sharply to herself. "And rightfully, if I do say so."

"How long have I been out?"

"Three days."

"That means..."

"The feast has just begun."

"Can I go?"

"I would strongly recommend against it, but... I cannot stop you if you do."

"I want to."

She sighs, but does not stop him. "Miss Granger brought a set of your robes. They are in the changing room. I will ask, however, that you take a little more care of yourself."

"I always do."

It is only through massive amounts of stubbornness, determination, and time that Harry is able to get out of bed and get to his clothes. He has a feeling Madame Pomfrey is passive-aggressively punishing him, but he grits his teeth and pulls the robes over his head. He fumbles with the tie for a few minutes, then gives up and eyes the sloppy knot with disdain.

"Thank you, Madame Pomfrey," he calls on his way out.

It takes him twenty minutes to hobble to the Great Hall. By then, his lungs are burning and he can't feel his legs. Irritably, he palms his wand and blasts the ornate doors open with a little too much force, and they slam into the wall.

He steps into the suddenly silent hall. He barely has time to be mortified by his unintentionally dramatic entrance before a brown missile slams into him, arms wrapped around his waist.

"Harry! Don't ever do that to us again!"

Cautiously, he pats her back. "Well... the plan worked, didn't it?" He regards the suddenly-too-interested students warily and meets Longbottom's gaze. The boy smiles weakly, but he, too, looks relieved. "Why don't we go somewhere else?"

Granger nods, her head still tucked under Harry's chin. She wipes her eyes and says, "Right, of course. We can go to the Gryffindor common room."

Longbottom catches up with them just as the doors close.

"I don't think I'm allowed in there, Granger."

"Nonsense. You'd be allowed anywhere right now. They worship the ground you walk on. Besides, you're an honorary Gryffindor."

Harry suppresses a shiver of horror. "That is not...exactly a good thing."

She sniffed. "Well, you should have thought of that before you decided that climbing a cerberus was the way to go. Even if I have to admit...you were brilliant out there. But don't do that again!"

Amused, but fond, "Wasn't planning on it."

The Gryffindor common room is guarded by the portrait of a fat woman wearing too many rings and particularly voluminous petticoats. She peers down at Harry and holds one hand daintily to my chest. "My, but if it isn't Harry Potter! I had expected you to be in my house, young man. I'd recognize you immediately. You have your father's—"

" _Victory_ ," Granger says hastily. The portrait continued talking even as it swung open.

"—build and you look just like him, except you have your mother's eyes—" Her voice becomes fainter and fainter as they walk further into the room.

The only word to describe the Gryffindor common room is...warm. Red and golds everywhere, the hearth merrily burning in front of dozens of overstuffed couches, perfect for falling into after a long day. As it is in a tower, the view from the windows is quite breathtaking. It does not have the austere, eruditic comfort of Ravenclaw's Spire, but it is homely nonetheless.

"Wait here," says Granger, and disappears up the girl's dorms. Longbottom pulls him to a couch.

"How're you feeling?" the timid boy asks.

"Like I've been run over by a tractor."

"A... a what?"

"Never mind."

Granger bounds down the stairs. In her hand, she is clutching a bundle of newspapers, which she throws into Harry's lap. "Look, Harry!" she says excitedly, and points to the front cover. He stares at it dumbly for a few seconds.

It is a moving picture. The background is pitch black. In the middle, a three-headed cerberus is thrashing, roaring, gnashing its gleaming teeth. On top of the middle head, Harry has his sword thrust into the air, and the white glow casts his determined face into view.

Below, in bold: _'Boy-Who-Lived Saves Hogwarts!'_

"That's...a bit of an exaggeration, isn't it?"

Granger waves a hand dismissively. "It sells."

"How did they even get this picture?"

"Oh!" Granger perks up again. "After you, the shadow... well... what was that, Harry?"

"The wraith? I don't know." He frowns. "I remember hearing voices, and my scar hurt."

"...your scar hurt? I've never heard of such a thing. I'll be sure to look into it over the summer."

"What happened?"

"The Aurors came not soon after you... Professor McGonagall was livid. They said there was some kind of ward over the door. I don't think she believed that. But did you know, the aurors asked to see our memories? You think really hard about it," she mimics pulling a string out of her temple with one hand, "and deposit the memory in the pensieve. I guess they must have taken the picture from there."

"I see."

"I bought a bunch of copies of this issue. Here, have this one. I've sent another to my parents, too! I can show them my friend!" She smiles, a little wistfully. "I've never had friends before."

Perhaps it's the lack of sleep getting to his head again, but he says, "Neither have I."

They look at Longbottom, who shrugs. "Gran tried to get me to associate with some of the other pureblood children once. That's about it."

"Well," says Granger briskly. "We have each other now."

Harry doesn't respond, but he looks down at the newspaper, and something in his chest tightens.

[x]

Harry watches Granger tackle her parents in Platform Nine-And-Three-Quarters. They hug her tightly, kissing her cheeks, fussing over the scar on the side of her face as she rolls her eyes. When she sees Harry, she excuses herself momentarily and bounds over, grasping his elbow and leading him to the side.

"Where are your aunt and uncle?"

Harry shrugs. "Outside the terminal, probably. I'll find them."

"Well..alright. Stay in touch, okay? And..." she draws a thick book out of her robes from where she had been squashing it against her side. "It's meant to be a surprise. Nev and I worked on it, but he needed to go somewhere so I'm the one presenting you with it." Her eyes soften. "Thank you for being my first friend, Harry. Even if you won't admit it."

He takes the book. The cover is leather, and slightly coarse. When he opens it he is momentarily robbed of breath, because there is a black-haired man and a green-eyed woman grinning at him from the first page, waving enthusiastically.

"You said you didn't have any pictures," Granger says softly. "So Neville and I went to Hagrid and Professor McGonagall, and they got some pictures for us. I hope you like—omph!" Despite himself, Harry surges forward and grabs her in a hug.

"I love it, Hermione. Thank you... so much. I..."

She grins. "Good." Her parents beckon from a distance. "I have to go now, but take care of yourself. We'll be in contact." She squeezes him one last time and lets go. Harry nods to her, takes one last look as she is rejoining her family, and pushes his cart out of the platform.

The Dursleys are waiting on the other side, surly.

"About time, boy," Uncle Vernon grunts. But not even he is able to bring Harry's mood down. He caresses the spine of the album and smiles.

When his luggage is loaded into the trunk, and Hedwig's cage is safely stowed next to him, he opens the album to the last photo. It is a picture of the black lake. In the middle stand three figures. Harry is scowling, his hands tucked into his pockets. Longbottom is smiling, and Granger waves.

On the back, in spidery handwriting:

 _To new beginnings._

[x]


	2. Part I-II: Medusa

**AN** : Thank you for your reviews, follows, and favourites. I'm glad you like the story. To everyone who is worried that I'll just be re-summarizing the books for the next few chapters, all I can say is, I don't think you actually read last chapter. Unless canon!Harry is supposed to be slightly unhinged and cold. (I mean, you can't leave a child in an abusive environment and expect him to come out perfect.). Lots of foreshadowing in this chapter.

I'm sorry I cannot be replying individually to your reviews (I honestly do like ao3's user interface much better). If I did, this chapter would probably be delayed for another three weeks. Life's been hectic. Still, I do read everything, and I appreciate the time you put into leaving me a message. Enjoy the next installment.

* * *

 **Part I-II  
** **Medusa**

I am immortal in stone

[x]

Harry finds, much to his surprise, that he is enjoying his summer holidays. For the most part, the Dursleys leave him alone. The one time Uncle Vernon tries to hit him for not getting the mail, he only raises one hand in warning and says, flatly, "Don't forget what I can do to you now."

"You—can't use your...freakishness over the summer," the man splutters in response, ruddy face red and blotched with indignation.

A quiet pause. "...are you sure about that?"

"Don't think you can one up me, _boy_."

So Harry points one finger at the drapes —gaudy pink, frilly with lace petunias embroidered along the edges; he's always hated them— and sets them on fire. When there is no more cloth to burn, he calmly extinguishes it with a twist of his hand, pulls the cold white fire back into his magic where it lingers. There is a puddle of ash by the window, glaring sunlight spilling onto the floors. Turning to the suddenly silent, pale Dursleys, he lets his lips slowly curve up. He is reflected in their eyes, along with fear. (He revels in it.)

"Are you _sure_ about that?" he repeats softly.

They don't stop him after that.

[x]

When he meets the man named Gilderoy Lockhart, he feels a prickle of unease. It is too easy to dismiss him as a fraud, a man who relies on his perfect white smile and bleached-blonde hair to disguise the cravenness beneath. Harry almost makes that mistake.

But it is Lockhart's eyes that give him away.

Calculating, cold. Familiar. He sees them in the morning when he looks into the mirror, and he sees them again in a stranger's face. He looks past Granger's starry, lovestruck expression, Longbottom's perpetual awkwardness, leans over the two of them to murmur, "Watch out for him. He's not what he seems."

"He's a _star_ ," Granger insists. "He's famous. You're just too paranoid, Harry."

Harry makes a noise of vague agreement. "Black holes were once stars, as I'm sure you know."

Then there's no more time to talk, because Lockhart is approaching, his smile stencilled onto his face, long strides swiftly eating up the distance between them. "Harry, my boy!" he calls out. Harry fixes a generic polite smile on his face, eyes bland.

"Have we met?"

Granger hisses in mortification, " _Harry!_ "

Lockhart chuckles heartily and reaches out to pat Harry on the shoulder. In the flare of camera lightbulbs going off, his face is washed white, eyes gleaming. But there is intent there. If Dudley has taught him anything, it is how easily tactile contact can turn into pain. He sidesteps the hand, mutters an, "Excuse me," then disappears out the door before the others have time to blink.

"...I suppose he's shy, then," says Lockhart.

Granger is still blushing furiously. "I–I'm sorry about him, Mr. Lockhart. He's not... very, er, sociable."

"Quite alright, m'dear. Not all of us are cut out for a road to fame. But I do hope he can learn to like it. If he has any concerns, he is more than welcome to come to me, especially since I will be seeing all of you soon—yes, ladies and gentlemen, you have heard correctly! I, Gilderoy Lockhart, am the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts!"

Longbottom drags a slightly resistant (and dazed) Granger out of Flourish's. After ten minutes of aimless wandering, during which Granger calms the redness in her cheeks and smoothes out her frizzy hair, they find Harry sitting in the back of Fortesque's, stirring melted ice cream with a silver spoon, looking rather bored. The shadows blend with his hair, and it is difficult to make out his expression.

"That was quite rude," Granger says without preamble, and flops onto the seat opposite him with an indignant huff. "Mr. Lockhart is a genius, Harry. I think he can really help you."

"It is also rude to bodily grab someone on their first meeting."

"He's just _enthusiastic_. He doesn't mean any harm."

Harry is silent for a few moments, quietly stirring the swirls of dark chocolate into the puddles of vanilla until it forms a homogenous mixture. Then he carefully sets the spoon against the rim of his plate and looks up.

"He doesn't mean any harm _yet_. But there's something about him."

"Oh, not this again!"

"I grew up with the Dursleys. I know when people are hiding things. I'm glad I won't have to see him again for a while."

Granger and Longbottom exchange hesitant glances.

"...about that..." Granger says hesitantly. "...he's our Defence teacher this year." They expect Harry to become angry, but he only regards them steadily for several minutes, then closes his eyes and nods, resigned.

"As long as he keeps his hands to himself."

Of course, even that is too much to ask for.

[x]

The day they leave for Hogwarts is miserable and wet. Torrents of rain distort the window, but there is not much to see. Only endless fields of grey. When the train pulls into station, they shrug on their cloaks and hurriedly make their way to the castle.

"Second years and up, go to the carriages," says Professor McGonagall, looking as stern as ever.

But Harry stiffens _._ His wand, strapped to his wrist, cools slightly.

"Harry?" calls Granger, several paces ahead, only just realizing that he wasn't next to them. "What are you waiting for? Come on! We're going to be soaked."

"Can you see them?" he murmurs. She only frowns.

"See what?"

"The thestrals."

Because he can. Perhaps he always has been able to, but it is only now that he can truly _sees_ them, the rainwater sluicing from their black manes, dripping down the forelocks between liquid brown eyes. They are not beautiful in the way a unicorn or phoenix is beautiful—its allure lies in the carnage of a storm, the guts of a predator. In their ashfire manes and hollowed eyes, he finds a kinship with these creatures of death. He lets his fingers comb gently through its mane as he climbs into the carriage, chased with a delicate whuff of cold air against his palm.

"I can't see them. Only people who have..." she trails off here with a quiet, "oh."

They traverse the short distance from the carriages to the castle in uncomfortable silence.

Harry thinks about Quirrell's high, keening death throes and turns away. Unsettled as he feels, he does calm when they enter Hogwarts. There is something oddly arresting about the Great Hall—about Hogwarts in general, with thousands of floating candles casting soft, gentle light over the four long tables filled with students, presided over by the professors and headmasters. Harry wonders if this feeling of complete safety is a magic unto itself (but even this, too, is a beautiful lie, because there is nowhere in the world that will be safe for him).

It is not a common sentiment. His fellow peers look perfectly content, their eyes half-lidded with happiness. Not soon after, the doors open and a swarm of first years, looking impossibly small and frightened, swarm out, huddling together. Some are craning their heads, peering around as though searching—and when the first fingers point, the first excited whispers of "look, it's Harry Potter! Harry Potter!" break out, it's all he can do to grit his teeth and say nothing, his previously neutral expression stony and cold. (Last year, he killed a man, and he can still remember the screams—the cerberus, its fangs long and jagged with blood, sluicing easily into flesh. The half a body that remained, flung to the wall, leaking intestines and fluids. Strangely, he does not care. Perhaps he should be worried at his own endless apathy. _He would have killed me_ , he decides, and that was that.)

"Welcome back to another year..."

The Sorting Hat is brought out. Seeking distraction, Harry's eyes fall on the Slytherin table. He makes out a head of sleek blonde hair, a ramrod straight back, and thinks, _Voldemort must not have done a number on him after all._ But he does notice the slight gap between him and his housemates. It is not evident—perhaps they themselves do not even notice it, but Harry has always been a creature of loneliness and foreign distance, so he can see what they do not (or care not to).

That night, after they were dismissed from dinner, he walks with the rest of the Second Years back to dormitories. Surrounded by the quiet chatter of other boys as they prepared for bed, he drifts off into an unsettled sleep. He dreams of being watched from dark corridors, chased by an unknown, but encompassing fear, with no way to turn in the darkness but for the shadows.

[x]

The door to the third corridor is gone, as if it had never existed.

[x]

Professor Snape has never liked him. On the first day of classes last year, the professor had suddenly turned on him. Monkshood, aconite, beozars... Even with all of his extensive reading, Harry was only able to answer half, but he bore the man's needling and taunts in silence. After several months, they seemed to settle into an odd, unspoken compromise. Even if he was harsher on Harry than other students, or sometimes his stares were filled with mistrustful dislike, it was easily ignored. He never knew why. Answers were not exactly forthcoming—even if the Dursleys claimed that Harry was a no-good delinquent, even he could not make someone hate him within the first two minutes of meeting each other. Perhaps Snape already had a prejudice towards him because of his status. If so, then it is not any problem of Harry's own, for he cannot be bothered by those who do not look past their own noses.

Until Snape pairs him with Malfoy for the rest of the semester.

"Oh, Harry, I'm sure it's not that bad," Granger soothes, consolatory.

"It's not bad, it's worse," Longbottom grumbles.

"I thought we had seen the last of him," Harry says. "After..."

Granger lifts her chin. "Well, I can say he certainly has been quite rude towards us. But _I_ , for one, am glad he's better."

"Hopefully not better enough to poke his pointy nose into other people's business," says someone else.

" _Ronald_ ," says Granger, chidingly. "That's awfully uncivil of you."

"What? It's only the truth!"

"You don't have to be so discourteous about it—"

"Oh, don't tell me you're standing up for that slimy Slytherin! I say, he got what was coming for him in the woods."

Horrified, " _Ronald—_! I cannot believe the _nerve_ of you!"

Casting a wary glance at the bickering pair behind him, Harry matches pace with Longbottom, who has drawn ahead, as if to distance himself from the fight. "Are they always like... that?" he asks. Longbottom gives a mild shrug of discomfort.

"Yeah. They don't talk lots, but they always end up arguing."

After another five minutes, Harry bids a quiet goodbye to the three. Longbottom returns the farewell, but Granger and Weasley are too caught up in each other to notice. The Gryffindors have Herbology with the Hufflepuffs, while Harry has yet another session of double Potions with the Slytherins. Another three hours of Malfoy.

He finds the blonde boy at their assigned table, a well-practiced sneer curling his lip upwards in disgust.

"Potter," the boy spits.

"Malfoy," he returns neutrally. He glances at the blackboard, where Snape has already written the instructions and ingredients in a fluid cursive. "I take it your attempts to convince Snape to shift you to another partner have been unsuccessful."

"For now. Get the ingredients."

They work in silence. Snape looms over each of the cauldrons like an overgrown bat, peering disdainfully down his hooked nose. For all that he is a prodigy with potions, he is not a good professor. Those who are unaccustomed to struggling often find it difficult to understand the plight of others.

"Too pink," Snape barks at the two of them. Malfoy twitches a little, his hand on the silver knife jerking. It is only two shades off, but Snape's wand flicks and they are left with an empty cauldron. "Restart." Then he sweeps away, his cloak billowing. When he is out of earshot, Malfoy whips around to face Harry, his face contorted with anger.

"I couldn't care less if you want to be abysmal at Potions, Potter, but you are not going to drag me down with you!"

"How is this suddenly my fault?"

"I have never, _never_ failed a Potion before. Professor Snape always said..."

"Then perhaps your _godfather_ was too lenient on you."

This time, when Malfoy stares at him, it is more apprehension and shock than rage.

"How do you know that?"

Harry turns to the board and points at the instructions with a knife. "You're the Slytherin. Figure it out later, or we _will_ fail the potion. I'll chop this time. You put in the ingredients."

Much to his surprise, Malfoy grudgingly obliges. Harry has to admit, as he watches slender fingers quickly dabbing through ingredients, the light taps of his wand against the cauldron's rim, that perhaps Professor Snape's earlier assessment was not wholly nepotism. It is not something he will admit to, however.

"You will tell me one day," Malfoy huffs under his breath. A light sheen of sweat covers his forehead from the fumes. Harry rolls his eyes.

This time, the potion is only one shade off from the standard. A barely noticeable difference, but Harry has Malfoy take it up instead, just to be sure. Snape gives it a glance, mutters a "passable," then shooes him off. Malfoy gives Harry a smug look, seemingly forgetting that they had been partners.

Their relationship soon returns to one of antagonism. Outside of Potions, Malfoy openly jabs and baits him. Often he will turn to Granger or Longbottom, or even Weasley, who seems to think that he is welcome. In Potions, however, he is almost civil, though his clipped words and harsh tone lends no illusion to their acquaintance. They are not friends. Only people who are forced to put aside their dislike for each other to pursue a common cause.

But if there is anything Harry is not, it is blind. He sees the way Snape stares at them sometimes—not antagonistic, merely contemplative (with worry). He pretends not to notice when Malfoy stumbles over his words, a hitch in his usual aristocratic drawl. It is nothing major, but sometimes the order of his words switches, and he will pause, his brow furrowing in self-loathing. Harry finds himself tempted to say that it makes no difference, that he is still the same arrogant, stuck-up boy that he has always known (though it is not wholly true). He notices the other Slytherins avoiding him sometimes, the loneliness that he always tries to brush off but is never quite able to (it haunts him). While wounds of the flesh are easy to heal, those of the mind are never as forthcoming, and what happened in the Forbidden Forest must have left more scars than Malfoy would admit.

But Harry will not say any of this, because he understands lashing out with coldness to protect one's vulnerabilities. So when Malfoy insults him the next time, several months into their Potions partnership, Harry only says, "If you wanted to be friends, you could have just said so."

"You're delusional, Potter!"

But Malfoy's ire is forced. He only sounds tired (wistful).

"Acquaintances, then. Even I am not so foolish as to claim immediate friendship."

Truthfully, he feels sorry for Malfoy. He is a bully. He has never truly known friends, only useful people, people his age who try to get close to him because of his family's power and prestige. And this is all he has ever known, so he does not know how to make friends. It is a sad thing. He is used to being in control, but when he meets an even more powerful force, he is crushed mercilessly and left with the aftermath.

Malfoy struggles to put the pieces back together (only they don't fit anymore and he no longer knows who he is). Harry says, "I would appreciate it if you stop antagonizing Longbottom and Granger."

Malfoy sneers. "Don't tell me what to do."

But Harry does notice that he tones down the insults slightly. At least, he usually stops calling Granger a mudblood.

Harry is not the only one who notices the change.

"I think you have a good influence on him, Harry," Granger says approvingly. "At least, he seems to be making an effort."

"I'm hardly a good influence on anyone."

"I don't think you give yourself enough credit."

Several classes latter, when Harry's head is bowed over his book and he is idly scratching some notes into the margin, and Malfoy is stirring the cauldron, his face pinched, Harry says, "Thank you."

Malfoy scoffs, though his cheeks do turn pink. "I didn't do anything. Keep your pathetic gratefulness to yourself."

"Mhm. Add the coriander now—you're overstirring, Malfoy."

"Shut _up_."

[x]

On Hallowe'en's eve, he is approached by Granger, who clutches a book to her chest, eyes bright with excitement. "I want to do a ritual," she says. Harry blinks slowly.

"Isn't that dangerous?" he says mildly. "They are outlawed for a reason."

"No, they're not. It's mostly political reasons. I've checked over everything—and I've asked Professor Babbling, though she didn't know which ritual I was talking about. But I made sure. And Professor McGonagall says that technically we are allowed to practice the simpler ones."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"I want you to be a part of it." When Harry begins to speak, Granger raises a hand quickly to stop him. "Hear me out. We'll never get a chance like this again. Once we graduate we'll be under constant surveillance. At least in Hogwarts, they don't expect us to do something like this."

"Regardless of how talented you think we are, we're still only second year students. There are many things that can go wrong."

"This isn't. I've specifically picked one that doesn't require animal sacrifice. It's very simple, but it requires three people to perform. Please, Harry?"

"Go ask Weasley. I'm sure he'd be willing to help."

"He's awfully closed-minded. I don't want to ask him. Besides, aren't you even the little bit curious? We'll never learn what it's like from a book."

Still, he hesitates. "I am. I have to admit that. But I still do not think it is a good idea."

"Since it's Hallowe'en tomorrow, it's an auspicious day. The borders between our world and Magic are thinnest now, and because it's a celebration for wizards, our curfew's extended. We won't be long. It's not very noticeable either."

"Sitting and chanting in a circle is not very noticeable?"

"It's nothing like that! Please, Harry?"

He is quite curious. "Well, alright."

Granger beams.

"Wonderful! I'll go tell Neville. Let's meet at the Great Hall at seven o'clock. I have a spot picked out already."

Harry makes an affirmative sound, then turns to leave. Halfway across his walk back to the Castle, he hears footsteps rapidly approaching as someone hurries to catch up with him, before falling in stride.

"I thought you had better sense than that, Potter," Malfoy drawls.

Harry does not slow or look at him. "I presume you've heard everything, then."

"So I have. What are you going to do about it?"

"Nothing."

That was not the answer he was expecting. "...nothing?"

"If you were going to do anything, then we would not be having this conversation. You would have gone directly to a professor."

"Nothing's stopping me from going now."

Harry turns to face him and stares intently. After a while he shakes his head. "You won't. I can tell. You're only here to try and dissuade me from going."

"I could care less what happened to you, Potter."

"I wouldn't be deluded to think you cared, no. But it would take you a long time to train up another Potions partner."

"You know nothing about rituals. I didn't think you would be so stupid. Granger...I expected it from _her_. But _you_ —I thought you knew better than that."

"You know what ritual she's planning on using—don't give me that look, I'm not stupid. Is it as she says?"

Malfoy averts his eyes. "Yes. For the most part. It is simple enough. You burn some food and say a few lines to purify the earth, then use the ash as an offering."

"There likely won't be a problem then."

Malfoy scowls, annoyed that his warning is not being taken more carefully.

"If you are so set on your foolish actions, then far be it from me to discourage you. Go on. Get yourself killed. See if I care."

"I won't. See you tomorrow, Malfoy." Harry gives him a nod, then leaves in the direction of the Ravenclaw towers. It is four o'clock already. He spends some time in his dorm with a book, before heading down to catch a light supper. At seven, he meets Granger and Longbottom. Granger has a burlap bag tucked surreptitiously beneath her robes.

"Ready?" she says with excitement. "Let's go."

The clearing she has picked is very close to the Forbidden Forest, but an alcove of trees blocks them from view of the castle. Granger kneels and draws an equilateral triangle with her wand, burning a light black line into the drying yellow grass. "Sit at the corners. I'll explain what we have to do." She pulls several folded packages from her bag and passes them around. The parcels are slightly moist, and when he looks down his hands are lightly stained red. "I was going to use apples and bread, but I think meat works better. I got it from the kitchen. I, uhm... hope you're okay with a bit of blood."

Harry feels sourly amused. He thinks of broken noses and broken bones, then of Quirrell's broken body, and how he feels nothing at all. "It doesn't bother me." He unwraps his package and lets the squishy meat fall to the ground. It isn't _that_ bloody, but Granger looks queasy and Longbottom looks like he will pass out.

"I'll say the chants, since I won't have time to teach it to you. When I give the signal, burn it. It won't spread. Do you know the bluebell fire spell? Good. Use that one. Let's start."

They sit. Harry feels slightly apprehensive, and can see from Longbottom's expression that he feels the same way.

"Oh Mother of all, she who nurtures us..."

Harry finds himself wondering what Malfoy is doing. He doesn't think he's wrong in his assumptions—Malfoy won't go to the professors, but nevertheless. There isn't much to fear from this ritual. Nothing is happening. Granger's face is scrunched in concentration.

"...hard and implacable as the indomitable ocean... Mother of mountains, of the skies and stars, hear our prayer..."

Gradually there is a rising murmur. He feels his skin prickle, like the way it does before a thunderstorm. He sits up straight and frowns, but Longbottom and Granger don't react.

The twine that had kept the package shut is stained on one side.

"...blessed are we that receive your favour... we, who are your children, pray for your love and blessing..."

The wind has died. A thick, tannic smell hangs in the air, like ozone. All sound fades away. He cannot hear Granger anymore, or the faint sound of students talking from very far away. Only his heartbeat, and the steady crescendo in his head—he cannot concentrate, it starts as a murmur that grows, poisoning his heart, his veins; thousands of leitmotifs overlap into a discordant shriek—where is the silence

There is a veil of sorts, a thick grey overhang that is everything and nothing, fluttering in and out of view, surrounding him—something is on the other side and he does not want to see—but long tendrils wear a hole through the cloth, and with a shriek—

With a sudden shock, he realizes that Granger is burning the meats, and he tries to shout a warning (because he knows that whatever is on the other side is dampened in power, suppressing itself in eager anticipation, waiting for the power of willing sacrifice) but he is locked in place, frozen—

"And we give unto you our sacrifice..."

The Veil between the worlds tears a hole.

Something inside of him breaks open, rapid and decaying, like a sinkhole swallowing a city, the edges falling away into infinite space, the hole getting bigger and bigger, consuming all—

The universe is infinite and vast, not something that can be comprehended by mortal terms. His brain is liquefying, exploding—white-hot electricity—he doubles over and screams, discordant melodies bellowing in his ears—make it stop make it st

[x]

"wasn't su... happen!"

"...get...onagall...hospital..."

Voices swim dizzily inside his head. Moist earth against his cheek, ash on his tongue—raw throat—he cannot see. Smell of burned flesh, charred remains...

Hands against his arms, his shoulders, but their touch ignites a flare of fiery pain inside of him, and he shieds away with a choked gasp. He tastes blood. He feels sick —more sick than the time he had accidentally called Aunt Petunia mum and she'd hit him with the frying pan— like he has swallowed a rock that is expanding inside his chest, threatening to expand and expand until he bursts apart.

"...get away from him, you _filthy mudblood_!"

Familiar rage. Something invasive and unwelcome prickles over his skin—the Magic inside of him roars and burns it apart, along with his organs—he throws back his head and—screams

" _Harry_!"

"Don't _touch_ him; haven't you done enough? You're making it worse!"

"I—I'll go—Pomfrey—"

Third octave chromatic descending scale, a sharp minor flare at the bottom, devolving in sine and cosine waves that approach infinity—destructive interference white noise—someone saying, low and angry, "Potter."

Somehow he has the strength to clamp down on the ever-surging Magic throttling him and gasp out, "Wha, Mafoy."

The grip on his shoulder tightens. "You're awake."

"Barely..."

"You fool, do you know what you've done? Stay awake—look at me."

Harry breathes out a laugh. "Hard to do when I can't see your face..."

Something blurry and white, scowling (fear). He never sees the worry in those sharp grey eyes.

"You're pathetic, Potter."

"Your bedside... manner needs..." He breaks into a fit of coughing, which causes the pain in his chest to grow alarmingly. "Mafoy... can't hold it... back you need to go... go before I... lose control..."

"What are you talking about?"

"It's... in me and it's going to, I can't..."

Blindly, he remembers trying to push the other boy away, but his arms are heavy and uncoordinated, and he only has time to choke out one more, " _go,"_ before his control fumbles, and then he is helpless in the tsunami of Magic's wrath. It explodes out of him, drowning out the world into ringing, he presses his hands to the earth and it is like how he imagines the cruciatus, only thousands of times worse. The discordant cacophony forms visions, he can feel _unadulterated rage_ at everything and nothing, purge the evil. He thinks he is screaming but everything is white, gone, and he falls.

Everything is silent.

For a long time there is darkness.

Gradually he becomes aware of his own breathing: soft, slick with blood, trembling. Then, another voice, neutral inflection (it strikes him as wrong).

"...er... Po... er..."

A hand on his elbow. He flinches away with a hiss, oversensitive nerves searing.

"...Potter. Can you hear me?"

There is something missing, gone, a warmth he had never realized was there. He is empty, bereft, barren. He wraps his arms around his torso and groans.

"Pro...ff..."

"Do not speak," says the voice again, as calm and clear as a dead lake. "I will need to carry you to the Hospital Wing." There is a second's pause, then arms are sliding under his knees and back, pulling him against a sturdy chest. The jolting motion makes him flinch, a pained noise escaping his lips.

Whoever carries him walks very quickly. Several times he barks at people to get out of his way. Doors open. The warmth is soothing, but he is still cold inside. Footsteps. Stairs.

"Severus, you are needed on the— _Dear Merlin, what happened_?"

"One of yours, I believe," says the man, his voice tight. "Minerva—excuse me."

Smell of antiseptic. White. Someone frets. The man carrying him puts him on a bed, and he snags one sleeve with weak fingers, causing the other to freeze. "Than...k you..."

"No need, Potter," the man says briskly, then is gone.

Blankets being pulled up to his chin. "Sleep, Mr. Potter," says a woman, and he closes his eyes.

[x]

Harry wakes. For a moment he is disoriented. Where is he?

Then memories of last night slowly filtered through the fog in his head. The Forbidden Forest. The ritual. And—oh, god, did Snape carry him back? Half humiliated, half disgusted at his own weakness, he forces himself to sit up. The muscles in his back scream and twinge, but he grits his teeth.

Madame Pomfrey comes out of her office.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Potter?"

"I've been better."

She brushes the back of her hand against his forehead.

"Your fever has gone down. How much do you remember?"

"I know what happened, if that's what you mean. I don't know why, though..."

Madame Pomfrey purses her lips. "That will be decided by the professors. Well, Mr. Potter, there is nothing more I can do for you. You have been here for three days and are healing well. You have one of the worst cases of magical exhaustion that I have seen, though, so you will not be permitted to use your wand. You may attend your classes, however."

"What happened to...?"

"They are unhurt."

"Is Granger going to be expelled?"

"It is under consideration by the professors, but it is a very likely possibility."

"I would rather she isn't."

"Are you sure, Mr. Potter? Do not feel obligated because she was your friend."

 _Was_ , he thinks softly. How easily these things are seemingly broken.

"I am."

"I will... put in a word to the others at our next meeting. For now, don't worry about these matters. You will need to go back to your dormitories to fetch some robes. Will you be able to get there?"

Harry swings his legs out of the bed , his toes curling from the cold. His legs feel like jelly, and when he tests his weight on them carefully, it feels like jelly that's on fire. But he forces himself to smile at her. "It's fine. I can."

She looks quite doubtful, but lets him leave. Thankfully, it is the middle of first block, so there are no students in the halls, save for a few older years on spares. A Ravenclaw girl —a sixth year prefect, based on her badge— offers to help, but he turns her down and continues his undignified hobble. By the time he reaches the entrance, his legs are shaking and he is covered in sweat. It takes him three times to answer the riddle because his head is swimming.

Once he climbs up the staircase leading to the boys' dorm and collapses on his bed, he just wants to sleep. He lays there for all of second block and lunch. But Wednesday means Double Potions, and even if he would rather not go (just thinking of Snape carrying him across the school makes him flush in mortification), he would rather not antagonize the professor further. Painstakingly slow, he dresses. After fumbling several times with the tie, he manages a sloppy knot and gives up.

Then comes the long way to classes. Thankfully, his short rest had done some good, and he is able to get there without making an undignified spill. He makes it into the classroom just before the bell rings. Snape sweeps past him without sparing him another glance. Harry sits next to Malfoy. Malfoy ignores Harry and continues to read his book, but Harry observes with amusement that his eyes are not roving around the page, and he is staring a hole through the center murderously.

After another five minutes of pretense, Malfoy jabs a bony elbow into Harry's side. "Idiot," he hisses.

"Good to see you too."

"You're infuriating."

"We've established that already."

They fall back into an old rhythm. Harry grinds the lavender petals into paste with a mortar and pestle. After a while, he looks up and says, "Do you know what happened?"

Malfoy glances towards Snape, who is still marking essays at his desk, then bows his head and mutters, "Of course I do. I don't know if you'd rather hear it or not, though."

"I would."

"Granger combined two volatile rituals and tried to make them work."

Harry frowns. "I thought it was odd how she used meat instead of fruits."

"She combined an invocation with a sacrifice. Those are usually only used to call something out. Or... someone."

"Do you think she did it on purpose?"

"No. She's just another mudblood who thinks she knows everything and is above everyone else."

"Don't call her that."

"Don't even try to defend her," Malfoy spits out, an uncharacteristic show of disgust. "I cannot believe you went through with it. I thought you were..." He breaks off and shakes his head. "One of them...I recognized it. Not even my father would dare to try it. Just... stay away from her."

"Potter! Malfoy! No _talking_!"

They wince simultaneously.

Once class ends, Harry bottles up their potion. It is perfect this time.

"I'll go hand it in," he tells Malfoy, who studies him, before giving a careless shrug.

"Whatever."

Approaching Snape, he waits until everyone is gone before placing their vial on the rack, then turns to the professor and says quietly, "Thank you, sir."

Snape does not even look up. "As I told you before, Potter, you have no reason to thank me. Though it is accepted. You may go."

He does. On the way to supper, Harry is almost accosted by Granger, but Malfoy comes out of nowhere and swats her aside.

"Leave well alone, _mudblood_."

"Don't call her that," Harry repeats, slightly annoyed.

"Shut up, Potter."

Ignoring Malfoy, "Oh, Harry, I'm so, so sorry, I didn't know it would—"

"Why didn't you tell us?" he interrupts coldly. "You used a butchered ritual. Anyone could tell you it was a bad idea."

She wrings her hands. "It wasn't supposed to happen."

"Nothing bad is ever _supposed_ to happen. People don't die because they're supposed to."

"Harry..."

"Don't. Not now. Losing my magic makes me short tempered, and I will take it out on you if you don't just _go_." He injects some venom into the last word. Her eyes well up with tears, and she flees down the corridor. Longbottom looks at him, a little disappointed, mostly understanding, and bids him a quiet _hope you're okay, Harry._ He thinks he should feel bad about making Granger cry, but he doesn't. He trusted her not to put her own pride above her friends. He was wrong.

Malfoy says, "You should have done that a long time ago."

"Shut up, Malfoy."

"Ooh, touchy, are we?"

They are at supper when someone bursts into the Great Hall, screaming, "Second corridor! Mrs... Mrs. Norris is..." The professors are on their feet in a flash, and push past the traumatized student.

[x]

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED

ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE

[x]

Lockhart sets pixies on them. Harry cannot use his magic, so he resorts to swatting them out of the air with a copy of "Magical Me." He feels a great vindictive pleasure when one of the blue gnats splats right on Lockhart's three-times-Witch-Weekly smile.

He ignores Granger's pitiful stares from across the room. He does not think he can face her without snapping.

[x]

Duelling Club. Malfoy summons a snake.

Harry doesn't realize he's speaking Parseltongue until he realizes that the usual din — _get the slimy Slytherin, Harry!—_ is gone, replaced by deathly silence. Malfoy's eyes are wide, almost awed, as though he'd seen some incarnate of Merlin. Even Snape's expression is slightly startled, although it only shows in the loosened line of his mouth.

"You... speak Parseltongue," Malfoy whispers, reverent.

"I speak _what_?"

"The language of the snakes."

Harry frowns and looks at the black cobra sitting obediently at his feet, its head swaying slightly in the air, a pink tongue tasting the air _. "Come here..."_ Obliging, the snake slithers up his arm. Someone in the audience screams. He runs a finger down surprisingly smooth, cool scales, and the creature hisses in enjoyment.

"It's poisonous!" someone else shouts.

"What did you do to him, you bastard!" Weasley bellows.

"Don't be stupid, if that's even possible for you," Malfoy says with a derisive sneer, though he seems amused. Turning to Harry, "Well, Potter. Tell the world. What have I done to you?"

Harry is silent for a time, face impassive, still unconsciously stroking the happy snake. He looks to Granger's frightened expression, Longbottom's averted one, Malfoy's glee. Then he shakes his head.

"He didn't do anything to me," he says quietly. "I've always been able to do this."

"But... how do you know?" the Gryffindor persisted, blue eyes large and earnest. "C'mon, Harry. You don't even know what Parseltongue is."

And he's tired of people deciding who he is for him. He hates the judgement in their eyes (because what right did they have?) as if he's disappointed them by not living up to their perfect idea of a hero, so he squares his shoulders, stares them all in the face, and lets his voice ring out, "Because I set a python on my cousin when I was eleven. That's how I know."

Everyone else is struck dumb, horrified into silence.

Malfoy throws back his head and laughs hard enough for tears to come to his eyes.

"Well, Potter," he finally says, between chuckles, and puts his hand on Harry's shoulder. "Seems like you were sorted into the wrong house, after all."

[x]

People avoid him like he is the plague. He almost wants to tell them that Parseltongue isn't contagious, but whenever he opens his mouth, others would flinch away, bow their heads and scurry off like the devil was at their heels. Considering the last known speaker was Voldemort, the analogy probably wasn't far off.

The only House finding particular enjoyment in this are the Slytherins. They treat him with (almost) courtesy. Malfoy is more relaxed in his presence. Longbottom still tries to talk to Harry, but he always looks unsettled, nervous. Granger does as well. She isn't as affected, and tries to stand up for him, but she's one voice in a midst of hundreds and is easily washed away. He appreciates the effort, though.

One day he comes back to the dorm in the dark and finds a snake on his bed. At least... it was a snake. Cut open from throat to tail, guts spilling over his once-white sheets. Charred. On the wall is written in blood:

HEIR, BEWARE

The next day, his dormmates find dead animals in their beds. When they put their heads down, they realize that what had once been their pillows are now the soft, wet insides of a gutted animal. Rabbits, mostly. Blood in their hair and in their eyes, they scream and jerk out of bed, falling amidst their curtains. When they finally untangle themselves, they find Harry sitting calmly on his bed, legs crossed, expression serene. His eyes glow eerily in the darkness.

"Having fun?" he says.

"You... you, Potter! You—"

"I, what? I've done nothing."

"You killed these animals and you—put them in our beds!"

"What do you mean? I found a dead animal in my bed, too. I don't know how it got there."

"You murderer!"

"Oh, dear. That is a _terrible_ accusation." Harry stands and brushes off his robes, smearing the animal blood on his hands. "I do think you're all in shock. I'll go get Professor Flitwick." On his way to the door, he pauses next to the huddled figure of Michael Corner, then kneels by his side, sweetly brushing the sticky hair from his forehead. Into his ear, Harry whispers, "Don't go starting a war you can't win."

"Is everything alright, Mr. Potter?"

"No, sir. Someone's left dead animals in our rooms."

When Professor Flitwick comes, he finds the other boys standing together, pale and determined. "He... he did it," says Boot, pointing a slightly shaking finger at Harry, who has just walked out of the corner to stand behind Professor Flitwick's shoulder.

"Sir...perhaps it would be better if I stayed in the Slytherin dorms until..."

"That is not an option, Mr. Potter."

"Is it the stigma?" Harry asks flatly. "Because at this point, the Slytherins are the only ones who don't want me dead."

"I do hope you won't take the actions of your classmates to heart. They're only children."

"As am I. Though no one remembers that, do they?"

"You are—"

"—I understand. _Sir_."

It is hypocrisy, but what more did he expect?

The next morning, there is a two-person wide gap on either side of Harry at the Ravenclaw table. Everyone avoids him, except for a strange first-year named Luna, who wears radishes on her ears and seems to be living in another world altogether.

Dumbledore is watching him with something indecipherable in his eyes. Harry cannot bring himself to care.

[x]

There is someone following him.

He is no stranger to hateful stares, but there is something especially sinister about this one. Sometimes he will see a flash of red. Other times, footsteps. Between second block and lunch, Harry takes a swift detour through the staircase by the second corridor.

Then he hears the voice:

 _rip...tear...kill..._

"I hope you have a good reason for following me."

There is a muffled yelp. Harry looks down at his captive. He has one hand over her mouth, the other holding his wand, with its tip pressed viciously into her jugular. He recognizes the distinctive red hair.

He lets her go. She gasps aloud, stumbling forward, one hand going around her neck. She is trembling, but it is not fear he sees in her eyes.

"A Weasley," he says slowly. "I don't think your brothers would approve of you following the _next dark lord_."

She makes a squeaking sound. "I—I..."

 _rip..._

And without another word, she flees down the corridor, face as red as her hair.

Of all the things he had been expecting, a schoolgirl with a crush had not been one of them.

"Harry!"

"...Granger?"

Her curly brown hair tangled around her shoulders, she gives him a wide grin, though there is apprehension in the way she holds herself. "I'm glad I caught you. Do you have a minute?"

He looks around for an empty classroom. "What is it?"

"I'm so very sorry about the ritual. I thought... well, I guess I didn't know what I was thinking, but I was so _sure_..."

"I'm not angry because I got hurt, Granger. There are no lasting effects. I am upset because you didn't think to tell us of this beforehand—are we really just lab rats to you?"

"No!" Vehemently, she shakes her head. "No, no, that's not it at all! Please, Harry, you have to believe me."

"How can I trust you?"

 _tear..._

She bites her lip. She looks tormented. "There's something... I need to tell you. Something important."

"Alright..." He begins walking towards the stairs. "We're not having this conversation in the middle of a hallway. We'll talk in—"

 _KILL_ —

He stops. Granger walks into his back with a small _oof_ of surprise. "Harry? What—"

"Do you hear that?"

 _hungry..._

"It's hungry..."

"I don't hear anything."

"There's something there."

The voice is rapidly growing fainter. Making a split second decision, he begins to follow it, walking very quickly back into the corridor. Granger runs to catch up with him.

"Harry? Harry! What are you— _oh, no._ "

Eyes fixed on the carnage in front of him, he breathes out, "Get a professor."

Justin Finch-Fletchley's eyes, in petrifaction, are wide with terror. Nearly-Headless-Nick is opaque, his feet half-against the floor, water slowly leaking from the washroom to pool at their feet. Every step makes his shoes squelch between his toes.

"Finch-Fletchley," Harry says. "Can you hear me?"

There is no response. Cautiously, Harry passes his sleeve over his fingers, and presses it to the hollow of the boy's throat. His skin is cold. There is no pulse.

That is when the first students, drawn by the cacophony, begin to scream.

[x]

"Who is the heir?"

"According to the school population, it's me."

"Well, _I_ think they're rather silly."

"It's not our job to figure out who it is."

"Some people say it's Malfoy. You have to admit...he might be. Maybe he's so outspoken in his support for you because he knows it will distance you from everyone else and deflect blame from his shoulders."

"It's not Malfoy. He's not intelligent enough to come up with that kind of plan."

"Unless someone else came up with it for him."

"...what do you mean?"

"I—nothing. I was just thinking. Um, also, have you seen Neville anywhere?"

"Longbottom? No. But that isn't very surprising."

"Oh, Harry... he's coming around. He's just been brought up to fear Parseltongues, that's all. It's just that he wasn't in Herbology today."

"...I don't think I saw him at the Great Hall this morning."

"...you don't think...?"

"You check the first floor. I'll check the second. We'll meet at the Hospital Wing."

They do find Longbottom. He is face-flat on the floor, a broken glass ball shattered against the wall (the Remembrall, Harry thinks with horror, taking a step backwards). Water soaks the ground. There is a little brown book, half-sodden. Harry picks it up, then crouches next to Longbottom, rolling him over. His face, terrified, is uncovered.

And whoever this heir is, it suddenly becomes personal.

[x]

Harry goes back to the dorms after being thoroughly interrogated by the teachers. He understands why he is the prime suspect, even if it is ludicrous—he has been found at the scene of the crime twice, and can speak Parseltongue, which automatically grants him a one-way ticket to Dark wizard status.

The other Ravenclaw boys leave him alone. Their faces are drawn into sneers, and one says, "Had another falling out, did you, Potter?" but they don't dare do more than that. Harry ignores them and yanks his curtains shut.

The little brown book is remarkably dry. When his fingers brush against the leather cover, something uncomfortable and hot twists in his gut.

 _Possession of Tom Marvolo Riddle..._

[x]

Hello.

 _(Hello. May I ask who this is?)_

I don't think I will be disclosing that. What are you?

 _(I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean)._

Don't play coy with me.

[x]

"The last time the Chamber was opened, a student was killed," says Granger breathlessly. She looks as though she had run all the way from her History of Magic class, all the way across Hogwarts.

"Did they ever catch the perpetrator?"

"Yes... I don't know who it is, though."

"Try going through old Daily Prophet clippings. Something this big would certainly have made the news."

[x]

Let's play a game.

 _(Oh? I'm listening.)_

It's a game of secrets.

[x]

"It was Hagrid."

Granger blinks in surprise, the paper clutched in her fist dropping to the table.

"How did you know?"

"I... guessed."

"Well..." she looks at him suspiciously."That's right. According to the Daily Prophet, the monster of the Chamber was an acromantula. And the student was—oh. _Oh_. It's Myrtle. Moaning Myrtle. The ghost that haunts the girls' bathroom."

"Should we have a look?"

She beams. "I thought you'd never ask."

[x]

I know you're lying to me.

 _(I have no cause to lie)._

[x]

The Aurors, accompanied by Lucius Malfoy and Cornelius Fudge, come and take Hagrid away. Granger is suitably distraught. Harry does not know what to do, so he awkwardly pats her on the back and walks her back to the Gryffindor dorms.

On the way back, he sees Malfoy hurrying through the corridor, holding a large briefcase in his hand.

"Malfoy."

"Potter?" Malfoy stops walking, but he glances over his shoulder, and his voice is even more clipped than usual. "I don't have time right now."

For an instant, Harry thinks the briefcase shakes. There is something that sounds like a muffled shriek. "What is that? It's moving."

"My father's house elf. I'm sending it back home."

Another loud cry. It quivers. He thinks he can almost hear words, and he furrows his brow.

"I don't think that's allowed."

"You don't know pureblood politics. I assure you, it is well within my rights."

There is something that he's missing. He opens his mouth to say more, but Lucius Malfoy sweeps towards them. His hair is long and white, thin mouth set stiffly, eyebrows arched imperiously over storm-grey eyes. In one hand he holds a cane, but it is more of a decoration than an actual walking implement.

"Draco," says Lucius Malfoy. "Are you prepared to depart?"

"Yes, Father." He glances at Harry. "Father, this is—"

"—Harry Potter," the man purrs in a dark tone. "Yes, I _quite_ remember. If that is all, Mr. Potter, you'll have to excuse us for the time being. Good day."

[x]

 _(Tell me a secret.)_

I left gutted animals in my dormmates' beds because they killed my snake.

 _(Ah, but that is wonderful.)_

Others would disagree.

 _(They know nothing. I have done a similar thing. To a kindred spirit, then, I will bestow a warning, something I wish I knew many years ago: do not trust Dumbledore.)_

He is the headmaster.

 _(He wishes to be more than that. That is why he is dangerous.)_

And what do you wish to be, Tom Marvolo Riddle?

[x]

The Ravenclaw dorms are a tornado of ripped papers, shredded clothing. Harry narrows his eyes.

The diary is missing.

[x]

"Oooh, yes, Olive Hornby. She was teasing me about my glasses, you know—awful girl. So I was here, having a good cry, when I hear someone hissing."

"Hissing?"

"Mm, yes. And it was a _boy's_ voice, too. So I opened the door, as quietly as I could... then I peered out. And I came face to face with a big, lamplike yellow eye, bigger than I can stretch my arms out. And...that was all."

"Is that the voice you've been hearing, Harry?"

"It's parseltongue, isn't it? Eyes that cause death or petrifaction. It's..."

"...a basilisk. We've gotta—"

"Go to McGonagall. I will find Flitwick."

"Got it. See you, Harry."

They split up.

He sees Professor Flitwick, "Sir." reaching out—

A scream.

"ALL STUDENTS, RETURN TO YOUR DORMITORIES."

[x]

"You gotta help her," Weasley insists, trailing after a scowling Harry.

HER BODY WILL LIE IN THE CHAMBER FOREVER

"I don't have to do anything."

"But—you're the Boy-Who-Lived!"

Harry wrenches his arm out of the desperate boy's grasp, feeling nothing but contempt. "And I would like to _continue_ living, so why don't you ask someone else. A professor, for instance. Now leave me be."

"I...I thought you were a decent person," Weasley says, his voice trembling with helpless rage. "Misunderstood by everyone, maybe, but I never thought—fine, you don't care what I think. You...don't think we're friends. I'm not stupid. But I thought you'd do it for her. You don't know how she talks about you. Like...like you hung the fucking moon in the sky." Weasley takes a step closer to Harry's frozen form, grabs him by the collar and pulls him forward until they are nose to nose. "You disgust me, Potter. You don't deserve her."

"...what are you talking about?"

Weasley barks a harsh laugh. "Don't pretend you don't know."

"The only time I've ever met your sister was the time I found her stalking me on the second floor."

"I'm... not talking about—Ginny's been _what_?"

"If you are going to accuse me of something, at least make sure I know what I'm being accused of."

"You...actually don't know?"

"Are you going to tell me or not?"

"The—the heir, he took her. She's gonna die if you don't get her back. Harry, you gotta..."

"Took who?"

"Hermione. She's gone."

[x]

 _They took her. Took her tookhertoononono—_

"ALL STUDENTS, BACK TO YOUR DORMS IMMEDIATELY. FOLLOW YOUR PREFECTS."

"Whatever the monster is, we won't be able to kill it on our own. Weasley, go and get McGonagall. She'll believe you. I will get Professor Flitwick. We'll have access since they're our head of house. Tell them that it's a—"

A sharp blow on the back of his head. He staggers forward in shock, one hand going to his bleeding temple, the other holding his wand shakily in his hand. But something is tucked under his chin, and with a whispered, " _Stupefy_ ," the world goes dark.

The last thing he remembers is Weasley's horrified eyes, fixed on something just above his head.

[x]

He is gradually aware of a rhythmical movement. His jaw is awkwardly tucked against someone's shoulders, and an arm is wrapped around his knees. Resisting the urge to open his eyes, he slowly breathes in.

Lemon. Spice. Expensive cleaning products.

Lockhart.

His wand is gone. Myrtle shrieks, "What are you doing?"

Lockhart's voice is dark, a low, guttural growl that tears at his vocal cords. It is not Lockhart any longer.

"Out of my way, girl."

In the distraction, he opens his eyes slowly. Myrtle is huddled in the corner of the bathroom, looking frightened. She sees him awake, and her eyes widen beneath her large square glasses. He cannot speak, but he resolutely holds her gaze, trying to inject a silent plea. She shakes her head, over and over, muttering _no, no_ , which Lockhart thankfully ignores.

 _Please_.

She looks at him with tears slipping down her cheeks. She swallows thickly.

And Myrtle screams.

"INTRUDER! INTRUUUDERRR IN THE GIRLS BATHROOOOM!"

Lockhart whirls around in shock, his wand snapping out, but in that instant, Harry pushes him off balance with one arm, and hooks his foot beneath the man's knee. Their combined weight, along with the momentum, brings them both down. They fall through the gaping hole that is the Chamber's entrance. Lockhart clips his head on the side hard enough for his eyes to roll back in his head. He skids off the edge and pulls Harry with him.

It is not so much of a fall as it is a tumble down. There are stairs, but they are old and often unstable. Several times they crash right through the rotting material, escaping with only a few splinters and bruises. When they land at the bottom, Harry scrambles to his feet, breathing heavily. He used Lockhart as a cushion on the way down, and now the man doesn't look so good. To be sure, he kicks Lockhart in the head, then rummages through his robes with one hand. To his immense relief, his wand is unbroken. He points it at the prone figure.

"Incarcerous."

Thick ropes lash around him.

The bathroom is no more than a pinprick of light, no larger than the eye of a needle, far up bove their heads.

There is no way out. Their impromptu descent caused a minor avalanche of rocks as well, and there is no way to go back. The only way is forward. So Harry mutters "Lumos," and lets the orb of light guide his path through the darkness. He pauses next to the massive snakeskin, feeling grim. _It's a basilisk, definitely_.

Gradually, after what seems to be about ten minutes of walking, the narrow, slanting hallway opens onto a giant chamber. It smells of sweat and mildew rot, dampness that makes him think of dead, bloated things. And:

Granger.

She lies in the center, arms and legs spread across the ground. Her red Gryffindor robes spill out around her. For a horrifying moment, Harry thinks it is blood.

"Oh, bravo. So you've found her."

A boy in prefect robes, with slicked back hair, glowing eyes, a sharp, vicious smile. Harry recognizes him immediately. He keeps his wand trained carefully on him.

"Tom Riddle."

The smile grows.

"You never told me your name."

"It is unimportant."

Softly, "Oh, I would disagree. Imagine my surprise when I find myself out of that girl's hands. I was angry at first, because I had made such progress, even if I forced myself to endure her endless questions and her worries: _Harry won't talk to me_ ," he mimics in a falsetto. " _I don't know what I'm doing_ — _Tom, I'm having these terrible blackouts in my memory—Once, I woke up with chicken feathers in my hair..._ clever girl, really, but all too prone to ignore the truth. She fears it. Imagine my surprise when I find myself talking to this Harry, who is _Harry Potter_ himself. And imagine my pleasant surprise when I find a mirror image of myself in him. I do hope you have taken my warning into consideration."

He thinks about all the times he had felt watched. He'd assumed it was Ginny Weasley, but now realizes that it was Granger. She was close to the scenes of the crimes as well. But he never even thought...

"You only told me that so Dumbledore wouldn't discover our talks."

"Aah, clever. A pity that you are not a Slytherin. You would have made a fine one."

"I do not desire power."

"Yet you fear others having power over you."

"That is different."

"Is it truly? Think on it."

"You're stalling."

"Do you really think you can stop me? No matter. There is one thing you can answer for me, Harry Potter—how did you manage to defeat the greatest wizard of history?"

"Awfully egocentric of you, isn't it, _Voldemort_?" Surreptitiously, he palms his wand, trying to remember how he had called out the sword from last year. With every minute that passes, Granger is growing steadily paler, and the image of Riddle is becoming clearer, the edges more sharply defined.

"You figured it out."

"It's not that hard to create an anagram. Though I'll admit, I came across some...interesting combinations."

"It will be a shame to kill you," Riddle muses, spinning Granger's wand between his fingers idly. "I would have liked to keep you as one of my own. I will spare your life if you let the girl die."

"If it was anyone else, I probably would have agreed. But this time..."

"Ah, I see. Personal attachments aren't wise, Harry. They will cause nothing but pain. But I do feel generous today. What if I killed someone else instead? For example...that teacher of yours over there?"

"There is nothing keeping you from killing both of us after you absorb Lockhart."

"You have my word."

"The word of the Dark Lord."

"It was worth a try. If you will not join me, Harry Potter, then I am afraid this conversation will soon become unpleasant." Riddle turns to the statue of Slytherin, its blank, pupil-less eyes staring vacantly into the room. "Speak to me, Slytherin, Greatest of the Hogwarts Four!"

The basilisk.

He doesn't remember much after that. Just a frenzy of dodging large, sharp teeth and tails that can decapitate him faster than his eye can see. He keeps his eyes fixed to the ground, avoiding the puddles. From his peripheral vision he can sometimes see a blur of yellow. He hopes that Granger will not be caught up in it.

But he cannot run for long. He is backed into a corner. Triumphantly, Riddle crows, "Kill him!"

He summons the sword from his wand. Thus far, all of his spells have spilled off the tough hide like rainwater against the side of building. But there is one place all animals are vulnerable...

The basilisk lunges. Harry runs forward. Catapulting himself off the ledge, he curls himself into a ball, and lands in the basilisk's mouth. It hisses in satisfaction, and the dexterous tongue whips around to force him down the throat, but Harry manages to cut it with his sword. The sheer momentum almost sends it tumbling out of his hand, but he holds on for his life. The snake shrieks in pain and tries to spit him out. Harry closes his eyes and mutters a prayer to whoever is listening. Then he stabs his sword into the soft, fleshy throat, and lets himself fall.

The basilisk writhes in pain. Its coils contort and contract, often almost squeezing Harry into two. When he is halfway down the basilisk, his sword is stuck too far into flesh for him to pull out. Yet the animal is still alive.

 _Heat_ , he thinks wildly. _I'll burn it from the inside out_.

"Incendio!"

The entire blade of the sword takes on a reddish-gold hue, before glowing white-hot. Flesh is seared away with an almost liquid consistency. It bubbles and froths, and the awful smell of burning protein makes Harry gag.

 _Incendio. Incendio maxima. Faer aegis. Burn._

The sword tears a hole. A spray of blood and oozing flesh. Harry bursts out, breathing heavily, skidding the five meters down to the ground. With a last flail, the basilisk falls. He is almost crushed. The thunderous pounding of his heart almost drowns out Riddle's outraged, "NO! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!"

Harry picks up his sword from where it has fallen. His arms and legs shake. He is covered in bits of snake meat.

"You asked me how I defeated Voldemort," he says in a low voice, trembling with exertion. Holding out his open palm, he lets the edge of the sword cut through his skin, blood rapidly coating the metal red. "I never answered you."

The diary is two feet away from Granger. He limps over to it. Riddle's eyes slowly widen. He shouts something, hoarsely.

"I think I'll show you instead."

And he stabs down.

[x]

The professors find him there, kneeling next to the spent diary, hands covered with blood and ink. His glasses are long gone, digested in the stomach acid of a basilisk. But that is not the terrifying part.

His eyes, when he looks up, are dead.

"Professors," he says, and smiles, fierce and desolate as a dying wasteland. "You're late."

[x]

Lockhart and Granger spend the next two weeks in St. Mungo's. Lockhart has a concussion and amnesia. Granger is under intensive care, though they expect her to make a full recovery. Madame Pomfrey sees to Harry's cuts and burns. He sits woodenly on the bed and lets himself be fussed over, staring straight ahead at nothing.

They are able to treat all of his external wounds, but they never see the darkness that begins to take root in his heart.

[x]

Ravenclaw wins the House cup. The entire table surges up in a roar of victory. There are hundreds of hands clapping Harry on the back, and he forces an automatic smile onto his face until his cheeks begin to hurt from the position.

His dormmates are too elated to hate him. But Harry doesn't forget. (Not like them.)

When the ceremony is over and he is alone, the smile slips off his face like blood from a wound. He wipes his mouth with disgust. Riddle's last words ring in his head, and he pinches himself to clear his thoughts. Now is not the time. (He doesn't want to accept that there is truth there).

The trip back to England on the Hogwarts Express is silent. Harry sits with Longbottom, who seems to have gotten over his fear of Parseltongue speakers.

"Will you visit Hermione over the summer?" he asks timidly.

"I won't be allowed to."

"Oh."

"Be sure that _you_ do. And... ask after her for me."

"I will. Are you... are you alright, Harry?"

"Hm?" Immediately, he turns to the boy and pastes an automatic smile on his face. "Yes, I'm fine. Why do you ask?"

"You just seem a bit...off."

He will never be weak again. He will bring the world to its knees. He will force them to acknowledge him. They will _see._

"On the contrary..." he says, and smiles slowly, an expression that causes Longbottom to shiver. "I've never been _greater_."

[x]

What do you wish to be, Tom Marvolo Riddle?

 _(I imagine you already know.)_

You will have to be more specific.

 _(We are not so different, you and I. Someday you will see. I will be great. And so shall you, even if it is not in the way that others expect.)_

[x]


	3. Part I-III: Nemesis

**AN** : Lots of things have happened in the last few months. I've been kind of out of it, so this chapter was difficult to write (say hello to the brain child of countless sleepless nights). I'm not sure when I'll be able to update again, though I'll try.

The main concern I see from the comments is that I'm spending too much time on Hogwarts. But this story will be incredibly long (it's going to cover all eras of Middle Earth, after all), and if there's anything I've learned over the last few years, it's that you need a solid foundation to build your characters on. If you are too impatient, you're welcome to wait until the Part I is over, though I wouldn't recommend it.

Yes, let's put a bunch of soul-sucking monsters into a school filled with angsty, magical teenagers. What could possibly happen?

Unedited.

* * *

[x]

 _A child suckles at a dying woman's breast, feeding off her proximity of death with all of the fervor of young, insatiable life. "His name is Tom Marvolo Riddle," she says, and dies before her milk runs dry._

(Seven months after Hermione's failed ritual, Harry begins to have dreams.)

[x]

 **Part I-iii  
Nemesis**

I will have vengeance

[x]

 _He is a quiet child. In an orphanage of fifty children, housed in a dingy brick building that could hold a maximum of twenty, he is not paid much attention. Even as a baby, he rarely cried. This is why his oddness is not discovered until much later._

 _There are many idiosyncrasies unique to his person. They are not shared by any of his fellow orphans. For one, he despises summer. While other children are off to beg adults for money to get ice lollies or sweets, he lurks in the shade, sweating through his clothes. It is always hard to breathe because the air is so wet; he feels like he is submerged underwater, drowning in it. Winter is far more preferable. He walks barefoot in his threadbare t-shirt and even if his skin turns blue and icicles form on his eyelashes, he feels no cold. He cups his hands together and blows; crystals of ice rain down, frost licking up his skin until he wears glimmering lace that melts at the kiss of the sun._

 _In the beginning, the Matrons teasingly named him "Jack Frost." After a few years, they only called him "freak," or "boy."_

[x]

One day, it starts raining and never really stops.

There is a crack in Harry's window where the water comes in. Dudley had thrown his baseball at it the other day, and while it did not shatter completely, it was left with the concentrically expanding cobweb of cracking glass. Underneath, the paint is peeling, exposing a dun-coloured underbelly. Thick sheets of summer rain thrash against the willow tree in the Dursleys' front yard, its thick, knotted branches slapping wetly against the windowpanes. The roar of the storm is intermittently broken by the blaring telly downstairs, or the sound of Dudley's Playstation from the next room, the carnal sounds of dying men punctuated by bursts of graphic gunfire.

Harry does not need a gun to kill. That is the difference between them.

Aunt Petunia is baking cookies in the kitchen. Uncle Vernon is talking on the phone.

"—yes, Marge—of course you're welcome to—"

"— _latest on the escaped convict, we have Kiera Manning on the scene."_

 _Bam-bam-bam._ The staccato of metallic fire. "AW YEAH! HEADSHOT!"

"—I suppose...yes, that is true... alright, I guess I will..."

Uncle Vernon hangs up the telephone and comes up the stairs, each step shaking the ground. "Boy," he says roughly. "Marge is comin' up for a few weeks. I don't want to see any of your funny business around here, you understand?"

Harry rolls over on the bed and stares at him with slightly glowing eyes, his room lit only by the intermittent flashes of lightning. The naked lightbulb, still dangling from its fixture, burned out two weeks ago.

"When have we been anything but the image of civility to each other?"

"Look _here_ ," says Uncle Vernon, his moustache bristling. "We've fed you, clothed you, put a roof over your head. Least you could do is show some gratitude. But instead, you repay us with your freakishness."

"This _freakishness_ is all that is keeping you alive right now."

"I don't need your hocus pocus around my family!"

Slowly, Harry swings his feet onto the ground and sits up, arms braced at his side as he leans forward. His toes curl on the cold floor.

"Do you really think a few blood wards could stop a dark lord?" he whispers menacingly. Light from the open corridor reflects in slanted angles along his face, disappearing into the shadows of his hair, his eyes. "There is a protection detail around this house right now, stopping his psychotic followers from gutting you like the _pigs_ you are." ( _they are the only things stopping me, and I am the one you should fear)_

Uncle Vernon slams the door shut. He storms downstairs. Dudley yells in anger when his character dies. Not turning around, he walks to the window, reaches out with the other hand and strokes Hedwig's feathers through the cage, coaxing wayward feathers to lie flat. The windowsill is wet beneath his fingertips, and a small puddle pools around his toes. Above the heavens, the storm god rages.

There is someone standing across the street. When the lightning flashes again, they are gone, leaving him to wonder if they were even there in the first place.

[x]

Morning does not bring sunlight. The rain stopped in the middle of the night, but the clouds remain, thick and ominous. In this weather, Aunt Marge pulls into the driveway in a cherry red sedan, windows rolled down, Ripper's drooling maw jutting out of the backseat. From his window, Harry watches Aunt Petunia bustle out to greet her, still dressed in her crisply starched white blouse, tied over with a flower-printed apron with one corner soaked in flour. Uncle Vernon opens the door. They exchange an embrace. Ripper leaps out of the car.

Aunt Marge looks up, meets Harry's eyes. He flicks the blinds shut.

[x]

 _He has hated the water for as long as he could remember. To be specific, it is not the water he fears so much as it is the drowning. When he was six, a group of boys decided to throw him into the lake for fun and he swallowed several lungfuls of water before he was rescued. They all found themselves in mysterious accidents later on, but it is an experience he would remember forever._

 _The worst thing about drowning is the inevitability. Try as you might, struggle as you will, eventually you will tire and be dragged into the abyss. It is only when water fills your lungs and pulls you under are you given a swift, merciful end._

 _Years later, he will extrapolate his fear of drowning into his fear of death._

[x]

Aunt Marge resembles the dogs she favours. Little beady eyes set deep into her skull, at least two chins, and the shrewd ability to pinpoint weakness in the same way a bloodhound traces a scent. Like her dogs, she enjoys ripping people apart. Harry is her favourite target. When he was young, he was unable to repel her piercing, bitter words, unable to protect himself. He is no longer young (no longer _weak_ ).

She also knows it is easiest to hurt him through his parents. That is something that has not changed.

"Nothing against your family, Tuney dear, but your sister was a bad egg. It only takes one drop of bad blood to muck up the whole thing. Getting knocked up with some vagrant and...well, that's what you—"

Her wine glass bursts, showering her with shards and droplets of red liquid. Aunt Petunia shrieks, one hand clasped over her chest.

"Boy!"

"No, no, Pet," says Aunt Marge, once she has calmed down. "It's only my grip. Too tight, the doc says. All his fancy eating habits didn't stop him from kicking the bucket. Well—" she pours herself another glass. "—good riddance to bad rubbish, I say. And _you_." She points to Harry with one meaty finger. She shakes it like she is reprimanding a dog. "You should learn to respect your betters."

(A dream he does not remember: drink the blood of your brothers and live.)

His fingers curl into the table. He feels jittery, adrenaline running through his blood, making his heart beat too fast, muscles twitching when they cramp from over-tenseness, pupils blown black.

"My _betters?_ " he hisses in a voice he does not recognize.

"Your parents abandoned you because you were _just like them_. If it wasn't for the goodwill of Vern and Pet…"

All of a sudden the scene changes. Aunt Marge's oversized frame warps into a skin-and-bones one, the chin dissolving into neck and sharp angles. The hair, oily and stringy, twisted back in a stern knot. But the expression is the same—the callous superiority (I am better than you, a part of him breathes. I can make you _hurt_ with a word alone, and you look down at me like _scum_.), the haughty disgust. The finger, accusational. His head hurts like he is Zeus and Athena is bursting out of his skull, like there is a monster of his own creation being born from the elucidation of his mind.

He can't explain the sudden rage that overtakes him—can't recreate the sudden, thick, potent anger that claws up his throat, stifling his words, choking him with its intensity. He has never lost control like this before; yes, he has emotions and sometimes they get the better of him, but he has always felt them like they affected him through a veil, or perhaps a great distance. This is raw and full of hatred, overflowing by blistering, inhuman wrath. His vision blurs, his head spins ( _break her make her pay_ ).

He does not realize he leapt to his feet until the back of the chair hits the floor with a solid clatter. He raises one hand in her direction and snarls, "Engorgio."

Aunt Marge bristles. "What are you goin' on about—"

Caught in her indignation, her chest swells with righteous fury...except it never stops. Buttons pop off her ironed white blouse with metallic _pings_ , drilling little holes in the walls like bullets. Pants tear like a banana bursting out of its peel. Her scream of alarm abruptly changes pitch. Uncle Vernon bellows, "What—have you done! Fix her! Fix her!" amidst Aunt Marge's choked gasps and Aunt Petunia's horrified shrieking.

"She _is_ fixed," says Harry cruelly. His lips are peeled back from his teeth and he breathes loudly through his mouth (and he thinks he should feel vindictive pleasure, viciously satisfied, but amidst the adrenaline he only feels old and weary.)

In the chaos he grabs his trunk and escapes on the Knight Bus. The last thing he hears, as the front door of Number Four slams shut, is ripping cloth and the roof bursting open. Then the purple double-decker bus blurs out of sight.

He spends the night in Diagon Alley.

That night, he dreams of the sound that knives make when they slice through flesh and grit and bone. He sees monsters cloaked in human skin, smiles that reek of falsity and malice, Longbottom's dead empty eyes (I should have fought harder), the endless scream that sounds in his ears, on and on and on, louder and louder and—

He wakes up with rust in his mouth, drowning in sweat, panting as though he had run a thousand miles in a heartbeat. He lies there for several minutes, breathing heavily, choking on words that don't make it past his teeth, and when his face begins to hurt he realizes his expression is locked in a glasgow grin. He thinks of dead empty eyes, _everyone around you is dying in slow increments_ , and laughs until tears blur his eyes because _he will never be weak again._

[x]

Around noon, there is a knock on his door, pulling him out of the tome he was reading. An unfamiliar male voice calls from the other side, "Harry Potter?"

"That would depend who's asking."

"Cornelius Fudge, my boy."

Harry opens the door slightly and peers out with narrowed eyes. There is a portly man in a pinstripe suit standing there, robes draped over rounded shoulders and a bowler hat propped on his round head.

"Minister. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"You gave us quite a scare last night when you ran away from your Uncle's house, Harry," he admonishes. "Not to fear, your Aunt is perfectly safe. A little accidental magic is easily fixed."

"I am… glad to hear it. I don't mean to sound rude, but is there a reason why you are here?"

"Just making sure everything is well. Not to worry, your safety is well looked after by the Aurors."

"My safety?"

"Well, yes." Fudge checks his pocketwatch. "I have a meeting in an hour. Do take care."

Harry watches him go with perplexity. Why the sudden concern in his welfare?

He gets his answer next day when he goes into the Alley and finds Wanted posters glued to the pillars. BELLATRIX LESTRANGE, the caption reads, with a black-and-white photo of a woman with wild black hair and even wilder black eyes. AZKABAN. DEAD OR ALIVE.

[x]

 _He's only had a pet once. A baby bird that had fallen out of its nest. He smuggled it scraps he saved from dinner; bits of dried, stale crust, a few scattered green peas, a smushed, overripe apricot. It was mistrustful at first, but soon he trained it to bump against his fingers in search of food and love. It would sit still in his hands as he gently probed its head, its wings, the little adult feathers it sprouted along its underbelly, warbling, content chirps echoing from its beak._

 _He stares into its trusting eyes and wraps his fingers around its delicate little neck. He feels the crunch of broken bones more than he hears it, and he lets the sad, dead little ball of decomposing flesh drop beneath a bush. A few days later he would return and watch with fascinated eyes as maggots burrowed in and out of the breast tissue, revealing gleaming bone. After a few days it was gone, save for a few scattered feathers. Food for some animal or another. He does not care, and that is the end of that._

[x]

"Are you alright, Harry?"

He stands up and takes her trunk wordlessly. She murmurs a quiet _thanks_. From the window of the Hogwarts Express, parents are tearfully bidding goodbye to their children.

"I should be the one asking you that."

"The healers of St. Mungo's are very skilled. They fixed everything well." She looks at him, deflates a little. Harry meets her eyes, studies her pale face, the dark smudges beneath her jawline, like a bruise that had yet to go away. "You didn't visit me."

"The Dursleys locked me up."

( _You could have escaped if you truly wanted to,_ the voice whispers insidiously. _You were afraid to look upon your failure...your lies…_ )

"I don't like the way they treat you…"

"They know not to do anything too drastic. It's fine. How are you feeling?"

"Oh, well… a little shaky sometimes, I guess, but I will be alright. Thank you for…"

An undercurrent of anger runs through his voice, a live wire. "You shouldn't be thanking me. If I had seen it sooner, you wouldn't have—"

"Harry, no—"

"I was almost too late—"

She rests one hand on the crook of his arm. "I trust you," she says in a low voice. "God help me, I do."

His anger leaves him and he deflates like a punctured balloon.

"Then you are a fool," he says tiredly.

Just then, Longbottom stumbles into the compartment like he is pushed, but before Harry can go to him it slams shut again, hitting the tail end of his trunk. Faint laughter emanates from the hallway.

"Neville?"

Longbottom's head snaps up, startled. There is a barely suppressed terror in his eyes (dead empty too late). His face is whitened and lips waxy, like a corpse. He reminds Harry of a hunted animal.

"Harry… Hermione…?"

"What happened to you?"

His laugh is nervous, eyes darting to the door. "N-Nothing. Just tired. I might sleep the whole way."

"Go ahead, I guess…" Granger looks to Harry, but he can offer no explanations. "If you want to talk…"

"I know. Thanks."

Longbottom rests his cheek against the wall of the compartment and lets out a tired sigh. His eyes flutter shut.

Not soon after that, the compartment door slides open again. A girl with curly black hair and chocolate brown eyes steps in. She wears the plain black robes of the First Years and looks uncertainly between them. Though Harry was sure they had never met before, he almost feels like there is something familiar about her, like he saw her in a dream of some sort.

A high, soft voice says, "Do you mind if I sit here?"

"Of course!" says Granger with a bright smile, and pats the seat next to her. After a moment's hesitation, the girl gingerly sits down on the edge, looking a bit like she wanted to crawl out of her skin. "I'm Hermione Granger. This is Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom. What's your name?"

Her eyes flickers lightning-fast to Harry's, then darts away. She licks her lips nervously. "M-Mira. Just Mira."

"Are you a Muggleborn? Don't worry, I'm one too. We're all Third Years, so if you have any questions, feel free to ask."

Mira's face suddenly twists into a foreign expression, something bordering contempt. "No," she spits out in a surprisingly hostile voice, edging away from Granger. Harry's eyebrows draw together in disdain. "I'm _not_ a Mud–Muggleborn."

Granger's shoulders stiffen. She is hurt by the outburst, even if she tries not to show it. The back of his neck prickles in warning.

"I...see."

The train lurches and begins to chug. Soon, grey smokestack buildings are replaced by wet green trees. Finally, Harry breaks the silence.

"Mira, was it?"

"Yes. You're Harry?"

"I am. Do you know what House you want to be in?"

"Not really. I guess...wherever the Hat will put me."

"Wise choice." Harry regards her with inscrutable eyes. "Do you have any siblings or friends at Hogwarts?"

"Um, no, it's just me."

"Of course." Harry draws his wand and points it between her eyes. Granger barks, "Harry!" in a sharp, surprised voice, and Mira gasps a little in alarm (but there is not the appropriate amount of panic). Pleasantly, he says, "Of course, you're not who you say you are, so I'm going to give you two options. Either you tell me your real name, or we're going to see how creative I can be."

"Harry, put that wand away right now!"

"Granger. Open the door."

Although she seems skeptical, she trusts him enough to reach out for the handle, but flinches back with a sharp hiss of pain, cradling her hand to her chest. " _Augh_! It burned me."

Before their eyes, Mira's lips slowly peel back into a maddening smirk.

"Are you sure you want to know my name?" she says in a voice that vibrates with glee. "Can you handle it, little Potty?"

Harry's grip tightens. "Speak."

"Mm. Perhaps you will recognize me better as _this_!"

And in that instant, several things happen at once.

First, Mira's shoulder length hair dissolves into a frizzy mess of tangles and curls. Her eyes darken to pitch black. Her body lengthens and thins, teeth yellowing as she bares them in a savage grin. He recognizes her now—that smirk. He has seen it all over Diagon Alley, seen the fear in people's eyes. He has seen adults twice or thrice his senior looking to him for salvation, and finally he understands why.

Second, a low hum goes up around the compartment, signifying wards that had gone up. There is no escape.

After that, Harry has no more time to observe his surroundings.

He ducks under the first spell, a sickly yellow light that splashes off the wall and burns a hole in the wallpaper. He cannot dodge the next one because Longbottom, who had just woken up, was behind him. He summons _protego_ to his fingertips, but the spell punches through the glowing white shield easily and slams into his chest. He is thrown against the seats. Granger screams when Bellatrix Lestrange sidesteps the scattered trunks on the ground and hauls Harry up by his collar, shoving him into the wall. With one long, yellowed finger, she gouges her nail into his scar.

 _Master have I not served you faithfully why did you leave me in Azkaban master why did you not come for your most loyal servant_

Longbottom throws his shoe at her head and shouts, "Leave h-him alone, you… you monster!"

He does not realize he's screaming until abruptly she lets go of him and he crumples into the seat, wheezing for breath and trying to clear the grey fuzz from the corner of his vision.

Her smile contains sharp, dead things. "Ahh—" she cooed in a sickening, baby voice. "A _Longbottom._ I shall have fun finishing what I started." She crouches down and digs the tip of her wand against his chin. " _Crucio_!"

When Longbottom begins to wail, his limbs jerking as though they are no longer out of his control, like he is in unbearable pain, Harry tries to force himself to his feet, but he falls back with a sharp gasp. Granger gives an angry shout and tackles the woman, latching her legs around her waist and hands around her neck, trying to throttle her.

"Leave him _alone_!"

"Another one," she growls in irritation. Easily, she twists her shoulder and bats Granger loose, throwing her against the trunk case in a sharp motion. The impact sends the remaining trunks, balanced precariously on its edge, tumbling down onto her. Longbottom's eyes are glassy (dead-empty-gone), drool starting to slip down one side of his mouth. The scent of urine permeates the air. Harry lurches to a standing position, forcing down bile. Shakily, he raises his wand and points it at her, but she only seems faintly amused.

"Do you know how to use that thing, baby cousin? Mm? Auntie Bella will teach you! _Cru—_ "

A far off scream, a sudden cold.

" _You played with the realm of gods…"_

Frost creeps up the windows. A rattle—several sounds mixed as one. The agonized scream of a mother cradling her dead child in her arms. The roar of a wounded predator. The final, rattling breath of a man on his deathbed.

" _...and now you shall pay the price."_

Bellatrix hears it too, because she almost drops her wand, her eyes wild.

"They're here," she breathes. "No, no…"

The train lurches to a stop. She curls onto the floor, all bloodlust and madness locked behind her eyes again. " _My lord—my lord, have mercy, please—"_

Harry's legs fold and he collapses against the wall. He presses his hands against his temples, hard enough to see stars, teeth clenched in pain. His wand clatters to the floor.

A whine sounds in his ears, rapidly growing louder.

"— _not Harry, please, not Harry. Not my baby. Take me instead—"_

" _Step aside, foolish girl."_

" _No, you can't—"_

" _It is your own hubris that led you to this downfall…step aside. This is your last warning."_

 _Green light, burning into the white. The woman's voice is cut off. In the fog it is hard to see. Red eyes and deathly pale skin, a single finger sliding out of a black cloak, pressing against his forehead—a fanged smile that cannot possibly be human—_

Warm hands cup his face. Harry jolts back into himself, clawed hands scrabbling feebly for purchase in smooth tiles, back arched off the ground, gasping for breath. Gradually, he becomes aware that someone is talking to him, someone unfamiliar.

"You're safe now," says a hoarse voice, soothing and low. "The Dementor is gone. You are safe."

Dementor…

He tries to move his neck, but a flash of pain stops him. He hisses through his teeth. "Lestrange…"

A large hole had been blasted into the compartment wall. The wards are gone, fizzled out. The door is ajar, swinging on broken hinges.

"Escaped." The sound of a match striking. A grim, soot-smeared face is reflected. Something is pressed into his hand. "Here. Chocolate. It helps with the aftereffects."

With difficulty, he peels back the tin wrapper and breaks off a small chunk. "Did I...faint?"

"It is only to be expected."

"I heard my mother…"

His vision is blurry, but he thinks the man's jaw tightens. "I'm sorry." Somehow, the apology seems to be for something else, heavy and laden with unspoken sorrows.

"Neville and Hermione… are they…"

"They will be fine."

"Who are you?"

A pause. "I guess I never introduced myself. Remus Lupin. I am teaching Defence this year."

"Anyone… would be better than… Lockhart."

A long, cold rod is pressed into his hand. His wand. He almost drops it again but curls his fingers stubbornly over the wood, feeling it pulse beneath his touch. With a quiet, shaky exhale, he lets his head fall back against the wall.

A hand on his shoulder, warm and strong. "Won't be long now. We're almost at Hogwarts."

Harry closes his eyes and tries not to think. (There is someone screaming inside of his head like they are being burnt alive, torn from existence to be replaced by ash and the endless expanse of fading memories. He does not know whose voice it is.)

The sick, twisted glee on Bellatrix's face—the way Longbottom screamed and screamed, eyes glazed and showing nothing— _crucio_. And a second voice whispers, _avada kedavra._

[x]

They are released from the infirmary in the morning. All three look paler than usual, but Granger is animatedly talking about catching up on the classes she missed last year, all the new electives they could take, and Longbottom doesn't look like he's one second away from keeling over anymore, even if he is a bit shaky. Conversations die down when they enter, but soon start back up again, covering them with a soothing blanket of white noise.

"How do you manage to take so many classes?" Harry squints down at Granger's timetable, then frowns. "Muggle Studies and Transfiguration are at the same time. You have four electives. And why are you even taking Muggle Studies?"

Granger snatches her paper back. "There's no mistake. I've been given...special accommodation to attend all of my classes."

He is picking halfheartedly at his toast and mashing his eggs with his fork when there is a loud, angry thump, and suddenly his own face is staring back at him from the plate. Granger picks out a piece of celery that has flown from his plate into her bushy hair with irritation. He picks up the Daily Prophet, wiping off grease and bacon bits from the side that lodged in his food.

The headline reads: BOY WHO LIVED—ATTACKED!

"You _imbecile_ ," Malfoy hisses. "What were you _thinking_ , if you were thinking at all?"

"Nice to see you too," Harry says dryly. "How was your summer?"

" _Move._ " Roughly, he shoves aside a startled second year, paying no attention to the affronted student as he settles himself into the now-vacant seat with a dignified huff. "What drove you to pick a fight with Lestrange, of all people? I thought you had more sense than that!"

Harry unfolds the newspaper and scans it. Then he frowns. "I never picked a fight with her. She attacked me. Half the information on this isn't correct."

The bell rings.

"Don't think you're off the hook. Come on, we have Potions. You better tell it to me straight, if you know what's good for you."

[x]

Two days later, the headline of the Daily Prophet reads: SIRIUS BLACK ESCAPES AZKABAN!

"Well," says Malfoy, looking like he didn't know whether to laugh or cry (or neither, because it wasn't dignified enough, and _Malfoys don't have emotions blablabla_ ). "Now you have two convicts after you."

"My lucky number is eight."

[x]

Divination, Harry's first elective, is with the Gryffindors. On the way there, they are joined by a group of them, who are equally lost. Eventually, a painting of a fat man on a donkey —Sir Cadbury, Cardigan, something like that— points them in the right direction.

"What did you do this summer?" Granger asks politely. Weasley shrugs. He holds himself stiffer before, and he is more prone to spacing out in the middle of conversation. Harry wonders what had happened to him after Lockhart had...

"Nothin' much. What about you, Potter?"

Harry blinks slowly. "I blew up my aunt."

Weasley snorts. After a minute, and Harry's expression is still fixed in bland neutrality, the smile slips off his face. "You're not joking, are you."

"No."

"Bloody hell, that's awesome. I wish I could—"

" _Ronald_!"

"Hey, Ron," says another boy, one with dark brown hair and gives Harry a cautious, curious glance. He is pinching what seems to be a very fat rat's tail between his index finger and thumb. "Can you keep your rat out of my clothes? It's gross, man."

"Scabbers!" Weasley perks up. He holds his cupped hands out, and the other boy drops it in obligingly. "I thought Hermione's awful cat had eaten you."

Granger crosses her arms with a scowl. "Crookshanks is not _awful_."

"You have a cat?"

"I got him this summer from the pound." She softens slightly. "I wanted to get an owl, but the saleslady said that he's been there a long time, and I thought he'd be lonely."

"His face's been pounded, alright," Weasley says. He drops his rat into his threadbare pocket. Granger wrinkles her nose.

"You're just saying that because you have no taste in pets. Or names. What kind of name is _Scabbers_?"

Weasley flushes. "What kind of name is _Crookshanks?_ "

"Don't think I don't know what you call that stuffed doll you keep under your blankets," Granger says nastily. She puckers up her face like she is giving a kiss, " _Ickle little—"_

"Oh, look, we're here!" Weasley says in a very loud voice and races ahead. He opens the door to the tower. All of them are assaulted by a nauseous wave of stiflingly sweet perfume. It reminds Harry of rotting flesh. "Eeugh, that's putrid."

It only gets stronger the closer they get. Finally, when they finish climbing the last of the stairs and reach the classroom itself, they step into a long, spacious room liberally draped in gauzy silks and tapestries and dangling beaded scarves. Circular tables are set up along the perimeter of the room, a crystal ball on each, and beneath their feet swirling white smoke rises.

Just then, the professor swoops out of one of the many drapes. She is dressed so similarly that Harry wonders if it is camouflage of some sort; if she holds still enough, no one can possibly pick her out. Beaded strings dangle from her long, loose sleeves and pool on the ground. Her large, round glasses enlarge her eyes almost comically.

"Welcome, my dears. My inner eye told me to prepare for you all today."

A few of the Gryffindor girls gasp in wonder. Granger scowls. "Or maybe you checked the class schedule," she grumbles.

The professor's eyes swivel to Granger, narrowed. "Non-believers will never be able to access their divination ability," she says airily. "Now, students, take a seat."

The class does not get better from there.

They start with tessomancy. Harry drinks his tea and passes it to Granger, and she does the same.

"Alright. What do you see in mine?"

Harry frowns at the cup. "A lot of soggy brown stuff." He angles his head to the side. "Or maybe a pine cone. A car?"

"I don't think wizards know what cars are, Harry."

"A beetle, then."

"Beetles aren't in the book."

"An acorn."

" _Windfall; unexpected gold._ Sounds nice. I could do with a little pocket money. Here, let me try now." Granger squints at the dainty china cup. "I guess if I turn it _this way_ it kind of looks like a bird? Or a cross. That means…" She traces down _Deciphering the Divine_ with one finger until she gets to the desired line. "...dangerous enemies. Trials and suffering."

"Well, that's one you got right, at least."

Professor Trelawney swoops in. "Having trouble, dears?" Without waiting for an answer, she plucks the teacup from Granger's hands and sets it close to her nose. "Hmm—oh!" Dramatically, she gazes at Harry with wide eyes and presses one hand to her bosom. "My poor, poor child. A falcon! A dangerous enemy in your path." She spins it ninety degrees clockwise. "A club, you will be attacked. The skull—danger awaits you. And…" She drops the cup. Dregs of tea fly across the floor, but she pays it no mind. With a trembling finger, Professor Trelawney points directly at Harry.

"The Grim!" she wails. "The beast that haunts the graveyards of night. The omen of death!"

And swoons on a conveniently placed couch.

Harry stands up, aware of thirty eyes on him.

"Well," he says blandly. "That was enlightening." He gathers his books and makes to go. After a second's hesitation, Granger joins him. Longbottom catches up moments later.

"My… my Uncle Algie says my Aunt Mellie saw a Grim. Harry—she died the next day."

Granger scowls. "Your Uncle Algie also threw you out of a window."

"Yes, but—"

"Don't believe any of that rubbish, Harry," she says briskly. "Now, then. Nev and I have Charms class and you have Defence. We'll meet in the Great Hall for lunch."

"As long as I don't get eaten by a Grim in the interim."

"D-Don't even joke about that!"

Granger rolls her eyes. "It's just superstition. Most people probably die of fright than anything else."

"They still _die_!"

"Correlation is _not_ the same as causation!"

They disappear down a corridor. Harry huffs in amusement and makes his way to Professor Lupin's office. To his surprise, the professor is not teaching a class. Seeing Harry lurking by the door, he breaks into a smile and says warmly, "Come in, Harry. How are you feeling?"

Harry sets his bag down on a desk. "Better. Thanks."

"I was meaning to drop by, but by the time I had a chance, you were already gone." He pauses. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"Yes, actually. I wanted to ask how you drove the Dementor away."

"Ahh. I was wondering when you would ask. Your mother had the same insatiable curiosity."

"Not curiosity as much as necessity. You knew my parents?"

"I was friends with them. They were the best people I have ever known." His eyes gain a far-off quality, haunting and nostalgic. Then he snaps out of it and looks at Harry. "You look like them, you know. You have your mother's…"

(But Lily's eyes were only ever filled with passion and love, whereas Harry's were cold and wary).

The bell rings. Both of them jump. As students begin to stream in, Lupin says, "It's called the Patronus Charm."

"Will we be learning it in class?"

"No, I'm afraid not. It's not on the curriculum, as most adults cannot form one."

"Then how are we supposed to protect ourselves from the Dementors?"

"They won't get that close to you."

"I think the train proved otherwise."

Lupin is silent. Finally, he says, "If you have time next week, I can show you. But for now, take a seat. Class is about to begin."

The bell rings again. When the noise of shuffling books and chairs fall silent, thirty pairs of eyes stare expectantly at the front.

The first instruction he gives the class is to put their books away.

"This will be largely a practical lesson. Can anyone tell me what a boggart is?"

Several hands shoot up.

"Yes, Ms. Edgecomb."

"It's a creature that manifests as our greatest fear."

"Very good. Five points to Ravenclaw."

The lesson continues in this tangent. Lupin teaches them about boggarts, where they were most likely to be found, and how they were defeated. Then he asks the class to gather around the shaking wardrobe situated at the front of the room.

"Now, class," says Lupin, his wand out. "Remember, think of something funny. The incantation is _Riddikulus_!"

" _Riddikulus_ ," the class repeats dutifully.

"Very good. Are you ready, Mr. Corner?" The boy had brashly volunteered to be first before he had even known what he was volunteering for.

"I—uh, yes. I am."

Lupin blasts open the wardrobe door.

A formless black mist oozes out, nebulous, until it catches sight of Corner, who is several paces ahead of everyone else. Then it begins to change shape, hissing with pallid white luminescence, snaking around to form feet, then legs, a torso of cruel muscle and bone. Finally, eyes that glow amber-red, cold and snake slitted.

With a burst of light, all is still.

The figure that stands before them wears Hogwarts robes, the sleeves rolled back to the elbows. Black cloth obscures the rest of the body. Blood is splattered over the curve of its pale wrist, caked beneath the fingernails, dried between the knuckles. The face would have been familiar, if not for cruel sneer twisting his face into something dangerous and beyond reason, the eyes that were red instead of green. (And in that face Harry sees another boy, one who embraced his intrinsic cruelty instead of pushing it away, one in Slytherin green instead of blue.)

Harry Potter holds a knife in one hand and whispers, loud enough for the others to hear, " _Don't go starting a war you can't win_."

(I am his biggest fear, he thinks, and it brings a tang of satisfaction to his mouth).

Corner is frozen in place, eyes wide enough to show the whites. A disquieting murmur shifts through the students like an endless tide, "Potter? He's afraid of Potter?"

And the thought begins, _what am I most scared of?_

He steps away from the wall. The boggart focuses on him. Immediately, its form begins to shift again, but to Harry's surprise it does not change much. Its body shrinks, clothing changing from school robes into rags, and the blood is now smeared over its face and neck as well. It is a small boy, curled up in the corner of the classroom, shaking with fear. Birdlike arms are wrapped around skinny little legs, and as Harry watches, his stomach beginning to churn with disgust (and fear), he raises large, pleading eyes to the crowd.

" _Don't let him hurt me anymore_ ," it begs in a plaintive, childish voice. Harry grinds his teeth hard enough to break his jaw. Behind him, he hears Lupin's breath catch in his chest. " _I'm not a freak. I'm_ not _._ "

"Dear Merlin…" someone whispers.

Harry smooths his face into an expression of impassive disregard and raises his wand to point straight at the boy. The spell _riddikulus_ echoes obediently in his memory, but how can he make light of this? He wants to destroy its existence, excise it from his memory. This way, it will never have existed.

"Bombarda," he says coldly.

The boggart shrieks. Blood splatters over the wound in its torso, and it falls to the ground, body curled like a dying spider, spasming wildly.

" _Help me, please!"_ it cries out. " _I didn't do anything to deserve this!"_

He takes one step closer. The boggart shrinks back, reaching one hand out to the others. Harry sees some of the students shift nervously on their feet, caught in indecision.

The spell catches its shoulder this time. Snot and tears run down its face, a smear of blood swiped across pale lips. Harry approaches, kneels in front of it (his fear of being weak and used and thrown away like a bloody bruised broken toy).

"I won't be you ever again," he tells it softly.

A hand comes down on his wand, deflecting it to the side. Harry glares into Lupin's sad, sad eyes.

"Don't kill it, Harry," he says.

The boggart changes again. Now it is a large, black beast, eyes white and shining. It is either a very large dog or a very small bear. At first, Harry thinks it is some kind of large wolf, but someone behind them whimpers. "The Grim…"

Lupin's jaw clenches. " _Riddikulus._ "

 _Crack_. Its long, shaggy fur is now braided into pigtails with little pink bows. With a flourish of his wand, he forces it back into the wardrobe, where it thumps once, then is still.

They are all staring at him; some with pity, some with horrified understanding, and others with fear. Harry drags the back of his hand over his mouth roughly. It comes away red from the boggart's illusory blood. As he watches, it darkens to black, then evaporates.

"Class is dismissed. Mr. Potter, a word, if you will."

The students leave. Some cast him glances behind their backs as they go. When the last are gone. Lupin approaches him and says, in a soft voice more suitable for wounded animals, "Mr. Potter—Harry. Please know that I am here if you wish to talk. Not as your professor, but as a friend."

"Thank you," he says transiently. "May I go?"

(You do not have Lily's eyes.)

"Yes," he says, weary and tired. He looks like he has aged ten years in the last minute. "You may go."

As Harry crosses the threshold, he looks back. Lupin is slouched against his chair, staring woefully at a picture frame clutched in his hands. It is angled away, but when he leaves the classroom and hears a faint, stifled sob arise from behind him, he knows who it is.

[x]

By dinnertime, the entire school knows of Harry's Defence class. Of course, the tales spread as wild as they were fast.

Malfoy says, " _You_ are your worst fear? How disgustingly pathetic. Maybe you should be a Gryffindor instead."

But his eyes, belying his tone, are concerned, and he is asking Harry if he is alright in the only way he knows how.

Harry hums under his breath. "I was Corner's worst fear too. I'm quite impressed." _I'll be fine._

"What did you do?" says Granger, intrigued.

"I put dead animals in his bed."

Instead of reprimanding him, Granger only heaves a sigh. "I was wondering why he kept avoiding you after last year."

"Perhaps you should have been a Slytherin instead, Potter," says Malfoy, raising an eyebrow.

(Put me somewhere where I can be forgotten.)

"The best Slytherin is one who is not in the House." Harry leans forward and smirks, to Malfoy's sudden consternation. "Wouldn't you agree?" After a moment's thoughtful contemplation, he adds, "Oh, by the way. I saw the Grim today."

Longbottom drops his cup.

[x]

 _He kills his first girl the way he kills the bird—ruthless, efficient, and without mercy._

 _She was a long-time bully of his and mistook his quiet demeanor, his predilection for keeping his eyes averted, as a sign of weakness. In reality it is to hide himself from the rest of the world, to assuage the sheep that no predators lie in their midst. It is easy, almost disappointingly so, to lure her into the trap. He's always been able to do things with his mind. It makes him special. If he concentrates enough he can make anything happen, and he tests the limits of what he can do on the girl until she dissolves into a slobbering mess and is of no more use to him, save for a body he will eventually need to clean up._

 _He doesn't quite kill her —they find her five weeks after she is taken, rocking back and forth and sobbing wretchedly into her knees, gnawing on her wrists— but she is dead inside, and at the end of the day, it is the same thing._

[x]

Harry does not work up the courage to talk to Lupin for a long time. He does search up the Patronus charm in the library, but what information there is is very limited and practically useless. ' _A spirit of positive thought?_ ' Pah. It could have said, _add toe pickle jam to a marble slab in the middle of the full moon_ for all the help it was.

But when weeks pass and he is still unable to produce anything, he reluctantly goes to Lupin for help. The man is surprised to see Harry there, but graciously upholds his promise.

"We don't have a Dementor to practice on, unfortunately, though I can help you with the spell itself."

"Thank you."

They decide to meet the day of the first Hogsmeade trip. It is the only day Lupin has open, and Harry does not care much about going to walk around in some city anyway. When he tells his friends, they react with varying levels of chagrin.

"I take back what I said about you not being a Ravenclaw," Malfoy proclaims. "You are _mad_. I have been looking forward to this weekend since the beginning of the year. You couldn't possibly stop me."

"We'll bring back sweets for you," Longbottom promises.

"Let us know how it goes."

"I will. Have fun."

The practice itself does not go well. Harry has never had this much trouble with spells before. While he was not arrogant enough to assume that he would be able to get it perfectly on the first try, he expected to be able to make some wisps of smoke, at least. Nothing.

He tries every memory he has that is remotely happy. The first time he climbs a tree and listens to the birds sing—the day he found out about magic—meeting Hermione and Neville. Seeing his badly disguised frustration, Professor Lupin smiles softly and says, "It is alright, Harry. Most wizards never learn to make a patronus."

"That's because they never tried hard enough," Harry grumbles.

Lupin shuffles a few papers, marks a "B" down on the corner of an essay and circles it with red ink.

"Some things come with time, or perhaps not at all. Do not be too hard with yourself. We can meet again in two weeks, if it works for you."

"Could I see your Patronus? I'm still having trouble with mine."

The professor raises his wand; a stream of silver light shoots out of the tip, coalescing into a dog with a shaggy black mane, eyes glowing white and happy. In the ethereal luminescence, his face is pensive and sad.

"I thought your worst fear was the Grim."

With a flick of his wand, the Grim dissolves into the air. "The Patronus is fuelled by strong emotions. Sometimes, it can be difficult to tell which are positive, and which are not. There is a fine line between the two." He pauses, takes a swig of tea. "Sometimes I'm not even sure it exists."

"That's not all."

Lupin grins and it is not a happy expression, full of loss and solitude. "Very astute. Sometimes, it is our fear that protects us, because it shows that we have something to lose."

[x]

Christmas holidays.

Someone sends him a broom. Frowning, Harry checks it for a tag, but there is none. He peels back the paper to reveal a glistening handle, each bristle hand-straightened and perfect. For a moment Harry feels the irrational compulsion to mount it and dive out the window—how difficult can it be? But then he shakes his head and stows it under his bed.

He has never been fond of heights. Not because he is afraid of them, but because he often feels the insensate, yet non-suicidal urge to jump, to fall, to feel the air tear him into two. An insane brand of curiosity. Sometimes Harry wonders if the avada kedavra had touched him in the head in more ways than one—if being close to death is the only way he can feel alive (because he has lived with this fate, this pain and chaos and war in his blood for so long that it has replaced love and warmth and safety in his chest, until he knows not what to do with himself otherwise).

There are some people who feel the call of the void stronger than others, where the endless chasms beckon.

[x]

The patronus does not come after two weeks, either. Or the month after. Soon, winter holidays pass. It is almost February, and Harry still has not been able to make anything come out of his wand.

Then, the whole matter is pushed to the side, because Sirius Black breaks into Gryffindor Tower and almost kills Weasley. The whole school is placed under lockdown. All students are gathered in the Great Hall and the Dementors are allowed to roam the courtyards. Whenever they passed too close, the students closest to them would shiver uncontrollably. Older students soothed younger ones.

Weasley is surrounded by other students. Once the shock of his near-death experience had worn off, he began to milk it for all it was worth.

"I was having a dream when I heard a sound, like ripping cloth. I woke up and there's this bloke —shaggy black hair and crazy eyes—standing over me with a wicked knife. I threw my pillow and attacked him—"

Seamus Finnegan, who lived in the same dorm, snorted and rolled his eyes. "Please, Ron, ya screamed like a little girl and he ran away."

"I almost _died_."

"But he coulda killed ya," says Finnegan, furrowing his brow."Woulda been real easy to. Why didn't he?"

No one knows the answer.

Harry finds out three days later, entirely by coincidence. He is going through his trinkets when he finds the photo album Granger gave him in First Year. Smiling softly, he caresses the cover. It is one of his most prized possessions.

The first picture is of his parents. Or rather, his father holding a flower out to his scowling mother. At the bottom of the picture, in a cursive font, _James rejected for the fiftieth time._

He flips a few more pages. Eventually, he finds the wedding picture. His mother and father smiling, and—a grinning black haired man in the middle, one arm slung around either of his friends, dragging them both into the photo. Then a picture of Harry's birth, the same man holding him with awe and a little terror, an amused Lily watching from the background. There is unmistakable love in his eyes. James has one hand on his shoulder. He is not looking at the camera, but at his friend, smiling with lazy contentment.

It is Sirius Black. Younger, without the madness in his eyes and etched into his brow, but Harry would recognize the face anywhere. It is impossible to see the deception in him, but it is there nevertheless, dormant and waiting.

Family means nothing in war.

He thinks of Malfoy, Granger, Longbottom. He thinks about a knife in the back.

 _Even your friends will betray you_.

He does not sleep that night.

[x]

"Nightmares? You don't look so good."

"No—no, they're not nightmares. It's fine. It's just…"

[x]

 _He hates children, even if he is one himself. He has never truly been a child. At least not an annoying loud pathetic asinine_ fool _._

 _Just as he looks down upon the others for their lack of intellectual ability, they look down upon him for his breeding. (Half blood, they whisper, and he wants to rip the tongues out of their mouths because he is not half of anything.) They are pathetic if they think his blood will curb his power, and as he forces the magic down from his fingertips and abides by the cruel, cold smirks that promise pain (but their idea of pain is so superficial, compared to his), he waits for the day he will make them all pay. He will make them kneel, these proud, cold purebloods. He will bend their knees or slash them down. One way or another, they will be beneath him._

 _One day, he will be great._

[x]

He goes to see Lupin. "You knew my parents. You also knew Sirius Black." _I recognize your writing in the photos._

Lupin closes his eyes. "We were trying to spare you of that knowledge."

Harry throws the album onto his desk. A few papers scatter. It falls open to the picture of Sirius Black holding little Harry in his arms. Lupin glances at it, then tears his eyes away as though burned.

"Who was he to me?" he demands.

Softly, "Your godfather."

Harry feels his legs go shaky. He finds a chair and sits down.

"And why… why is he in Azkaban?"

Even quieter, "Your parents were hiding under the Fidelius Charm. Sirius was the Secret Keeper, and he betrayed them to You-Know-Who. That's why he was able to find you."

But no good storyteller begins at the end of a story, so Lupin begins by telling him about the Marauders. Harry listens as his professor recounts tales of his father and mother's youth, their endless pranks and joy and laughter (a part of him eagerly drinks up the knowledge, and the other part is repulsed because his father is the kind of student he would dislike). He tells him about Peter Pettigrew, about their fourth member (the forgotten one, the hanger-on, the one with enough weariness in his heart to drown them all a thousand times). Sirius Black blew him up, and all that remained was a finger.

[x]

 _There is a dream he has forgotten. Or perhaps it is not a dream. With his soul separated (fractured), sometimes it can be difficult to tell the difference._

 _Across the endless sands, an eternal sun blazes. There is a man prostrated at his feet, bones thin and fine as the bird he once kept as a pet. He crouches so that they are level, and over the still figure he gently probes its skull, its bony arms, each juncture in its vertebrae a hard and painful knot, the skin along its underbelly cracking, a croaking voice, "please master don't leave me don't leave i don't want to die…"_

 _It stares at him with eyes clouded by blindness, the skin of its face cracked and peeling into angry red scores as if attacked by a rabid dog. Its swollen tongue darts out and wets its lips ineffectively. He lets his fingers trail around its delicate little neck, calculates the amount of pressure he would need to break it. It is easy to do so, but he does not, because he is no longer a child, and he no longer believes in death as an escape._

 _So he says in a deceptively kind voice, "Are you thirsty?" and when it nods and nods with such fervency he thinks its head will just pop off and sail into the distance, he summons a sparkling glass decanter and pours it into a clear glass cup. The man accepts with trembling hands. It freezes at the drifting scent of rust._

" _Drink," he says, cruelly, mercilessly. "Drink the blood of your brothers and live."_

 _It shakes. It raises the bowl to its lips._

 _It drinks._

[x]

Scabbers is gone.

"Your cat ate him!" Weasley roared, brandishing a clump of hair and a piece of torn linen with blood in Granger's face. "He—ate—Scabbers!"

Granger frowns. "A bit of blood and fur is hardly proof."

"He's had it in for Scabbers since the beginning!" Spittle was flying everywhere.

"Don't be ridiculous, Ron," Granger says primly. "Scabbers is probably just hiding out somewhere."

"Your rat was close to dying anyway, Weasley. It was looking progressively worse through the year."

"Shut up, Potter!"

"I don't see why you're so upset. You can ask your parents for a new pet now."

"It's not like you would understand. _You've_ gotten everything you've ever wanted."

Granger flushes angrily, but Harry cuts her off, his voice calm and modulated as normal. "There's only one thing I want."

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

And he smiles, slow and vicious and desolate. "The death of Sirius Black."

[x]

He is walking back with Granger and Longbottom from Herbology one day when he suddenly realizes that his wand is not where he left it. Frowning, he digs around in his bag, even though he never puts it there.

"You guys go without me," he says. "I'll catch up."

"What's wrong?"

"I can't find my wand..."

"We can help you look."

"No, it's fine. I had it last class, so I must have dropped it on the way."

"Well, alright. We'll save you a seat. Let us know if you need help, okay?"

It is not along the path or in the heavily-rimmed hedgerows on either side of it. It is not in the greenhouses. Harry flexes his fingers and tries to summon it to him, but it does not work. Growling in annoyance, he is about to find a professor to help him where a flash of black catches the corner of his eye.

A Grim.

 _That's not a Grim,_ a voice in his head says, sounding suspiciously like Granger. _It's just a very large dog._

And in that very large dog's mouth was his wand.

"Blasted mutt," he breathes.

It cocks its head to the side, pink tongue lolling out between the wand and its sharp lower teeth, almost like it is laughing. Although it is of intimidating size, its fur is ragged and it seems to have fleas. Ribs jut out beneath its patchy pelt, each stretch of skin painful and knotted. If this is truly Death's Hellhound, then Death needs to take care of his pets better.

The Grim pants happily, then turns with a wave of its massive tail and begins to trot towards the Forbidden Forest.

"No, wait—"

Frowning, he considers that the dog may be a familiar of some sort, trying to lure him out of school perimeters. But he needs his wand. Swallowing what remains of his rationality, he starts to run.

It takes a winding route between the Black Lake, nose to the ground, following some kind of scent trail. Harry is red in the face and panting for breath by the time it slows down. When it finally comes to a stop, turning in a circle around a ring of mushrooms a few times before flopping in the centre, tail curled contentedly around its paws.

"You've had… your fun…" Harry manages to wheeze out between gasps for air. "Can I have… my wand back… now?"

That is when the cold hits. The dog barks in alarm.

 _Where did that come from?_

He whirls around, face to face with a Dementor. Its hooded head is parallel to his, and bony, rotting fingers are already reaching out, digging themselves into his clavicle. Harry tries to break free, but it is too late—its cowl wrinkles gently as it grazes Harry's forehead, and now he stares into its smooth, eyeless sockets, the gaping mouth with no teeth, perpetually open in a rattling, hungry maw. A bit of morbid curiosity makes him wonder if this is what all Kiss victims see before they… he has no wand but he splays his hand against its chest, _expecto patronum, expecto patro expatro numex peroexpectoexpecto_

It inhales with a wet, rattling noise.

His head spins, he would have fallen but its fingers have gouged themselves underneath his shoulder blade and it pulls him close in a caricature of a lover's embrace—darkness, like the ink he uses to write his essays, splatters across his vision—he feels sick, nauseous, and it is too hard to keep his head up, keep breathing, it would be easiest to stop— and its lips close gently over his and _sucks_.

As his last breath, the bit of air he could never quite exhale properly, is seized from his lungs, something else is dragged out, sticky and clinging even as it disappears down the Dementor's gullet. It is like he is watching his memories in reverse, fast forwarded, losing each one to a cool, calm blankness as they go...

"—Lily, it's him! Take Harry and go!"

 _No… no…_

And then something cracks apart, a monster birthed from a delicate shell that breaks in the onslaught of cold. The same overwhelming power liquefies his bones, burning through his blood, and he would scream except there is no air in his lungs, and he throws back his head, exhaling the scalding power into the Dementor's maw. For a second, its sucking falters.

In that instant his eyes snap open. They glow white, sclera and irises and all, like he is overflowing from within, and driven by a primal hunger, he grabs the Dementor's rotting face and yanks it down deeper into his own, and when he bites down and _sucks_ he feels his lost memories flowing back into his mind, slotting neatly into their places. But even after his are fully restored he continues to pull, and eventually it is the Dementor's turn to wail and scrabble at his shoulders with breaking bones, making a sound of inhuman agony as he reaches deep into its essence and makes it his own. His magic flares around him, turning from its usual, neutral blue into something dark and twisted, phantom hooks gorging themselves into the Dementor's core, latching on and ripping it apart.

When he lets it drop to the ground, there is nothing more than a shrivelled husk.

When he finally comes to himself, he is sitting in a field scorched by frost, a blackened, stinking robe strewn across his feet. The ground is charred and when he inspects his arms, he realizes that his flesh is blue and strewn with thick fingers of hoarfrost.

In the west, the sun is setting.

Night falls. With glowing eyes he looks around him. The dog is gone. No one is there.

He pulls out his wand (it feels warm now because everything else about him is so cold) and casts a few _scrougifys_ on the Dementor's robe. When it does nothing except emit puffs of dust, he shrinks it and quickly stuffs it into his pocket, trying to minimize contact. Even touching it makes him feel uncomfortable (though whether it was from the latent aura or from what he had done, he wasn't sure).

He makes his way back to the dorm just before curfew. Some of the other boys give him askance glances but say nothing. In the morning he will wake up gasping, but the dream fades away before lunch, and all is forgotten in the hazy aftermath.

[x]

He sees the dog again.

It is lurking at the edge of the Forest, staring at him with haunted eyes.

[x]

"Today," says Professor McGonagall. "We will be changing mice into teacups."

When Harry taps the tip of his wand halfheartedly against the squeaking mouse, for a moment a bright light emanates from it. It startles him enough that his grasp on the spell falters. Narrowing his eyes, he tries again. Again, the bright flash.

"Try again, Mr. Potter," comes a voice behind his shoulder. He almost jumps out of his seat in alarm.

"Professor?"

"Go on."

This time, he watches as a tiny, ovular shaped light the same size as a kernel of corn lights up within the mouse's stomach, and as he coaxes his magic to life, wisps of calm blue light wraps around the white, shining heart, and stifles it with a merciless clench.

A teacup clatters onto the table.

"Well done. Five points to Ravenclaw." She spares a terse, unusual smile in his direction. "It seems you have inherited your father's talent for transfiguration."

Trying to see the lights auras again only gives him a migraine. In Potions, he almost drops a whole lily bulb into their cauldron before Malfoy smacks his hand away with a startled, "What do you think you're doing!"

He blinks, feeling a bit dazed. Two Malfoys stand before him, swimming in and out of view. "Sorry."

"You look like hippogryff dung."

"I see you are working the infamous Malfoy charm." Blindly, he gropes for the edge of his stool, narrowly avoiding falling off the back. "I'll be fine."

Indeed, by the end of class, the pain in his head goes away almost completely. All that remains is a low, dull throb. That night, he excuses himself from dinner with the excuse of not feeling well, and escapes to the library. Madame Pince glares at him with suspicion when he asks her where the books on magic are stored.

"This is a _magical_ institution, boy," she snaps. "You're going to have to be specific."

When he looks down at his hands, he can almost see a faint blue glow around them. There is a similar aura around Madame Pince, except it is dull orange. He thinks of the Dementor, its wheezing rasping breaths, the way something cold and alien shifted into his lungs as he sucked it dry.

"Souls," he finally says, and looks up. "Do you have any books on souls?"

[x]

There are eight books in total. A disappointingly small number, but considering that soul magic is heavily frowned upon (socially banned, even if it was not written in technical terms), he supposes it's eight more than he should have expected.

He also soon learns why there are still books in Hogwart's library about the subject—it is because they are absolutely useless. Every second word is a warning about dark magic. Those that do go into careful detail are limited to the theoretical. Frustrated, he slams the last one shut and throws it against the wall of his room.

Whatever is happening to him, he cannot tell anyone. At best, they would lock him in a hospital. At worst, he would disappear quietly and gracelessly from history, doomed to live out the rest of his short life in an underground lab. No, Harry will teach himself without the knowledge of anyone else. A part of him wonders if he should confide in his friends, at least, but then he thinks of Sirius Black and his fierce cruel _tender_ eyes, and it no longer becomes much of an option at all.

[x]

In the first two weeks, he manipulates his ability to turn this "soul-seeking" sight on and off at will. Or tries to. It doesn't work out well. The only thing he manages is a blinding headache, which leads him to wonder if he even saw anything at all. Soon, he convinces himself that he must have been hallucinating during the class, even if there is a staunch part of him that knows he is deluding himself.

Then one day, he is walking to class when there is a _click_ , and the world fizzles out to black, except for bright, glimmering auras. He stops dead in the hallway, breath catching in his chest. There is a thick, pulsing sensation in the base of his throat, a dry ache. He swallows thickly and tries to turn it off. After a few tries, it does. He shakes the grey fuzz from the corners of his vision and runs to class.

After that it becomes easier to reach into himself and find the switch. It never fails to disorient him, and several times he has crashed into people he could not see well, their outlines only a faint, trembling flicker in the distance. And as much as he wished he had it under control, it was not. Once, he was walking to Divination with Granger and Longbottom when the world clicks and shifts into the alternate plane. Suddenly walls and floors, other people's limbs, are impossible to see, and he stumbles into someone's back before they manage to steady him.

"Whoa, hey, you're bleeding!"

Weasley's voice.

"What?" he mutters thickly. He dabs his fingers against his upper lip and it comes away bloody.

"Merlin, you need the Hospital Wing? It's pretty bad."

"Let me see." Granger. She swats Weasley out of the way and presses her fingers to his face. He hisses a little. "Doesn't look like it was caused by a collision. Pinch your nose and keep your head down." She stuffs something soft in his other hand. "Here, tissues."

Little bubbles of colour start to prickle in his vision, his eyes smarting with tears. He cannot control these little episodes, and they always last between five and ten minutes. He keeps his eyes shut; once, he looked in the mirror as it was fading and saw his irises ringed with red, like Boggart Harry's (like Voldemort's). The last thing he needs are rumours about them.

 _Would it be so bad if I told her?_

Another voice says, _she would go to Dumbledore._

And he doesn't know when that became such an abhorrent thought. He never quite liked the Headmaster because of his insistence in being involved in Harry's business, but he respected the old man as a powerful wizard, perhaps the best in the era. But some part of his wariness and respect has mutated into disgust (into loathing that robs him of breath and makes his fingers curl into his palms). There is no real explanation for it.

He knows his eyes clear when the pins-and-needles feeling goes away, which is odd because only a minute had passed. Not that he will look a gift horse in the mouth. Grimacing in pain, he opens them slowly.

"I'm fine," he says. "Come on, we'll be late to class."

[x]

There are several things he learns about his new sight: intense emotion seems to be the trigger. The size of the aura he sees seems to correlate to magical power. Seventh years usually had larger auras than First Years—basketballs to golf balls. Powerful, older wizards and witches had much larger ones; indeed, Dumbledore's seems to make his entire body flare with painful intensity. Animals, on the other hand, had much smaller ones, as did muggles.

So when he is sitting in the courtyard near Hagrid's hut one day, and a rat scurries by with a soul the size of a large orange, he is surprised enough that he instinctively reaches for it, digging his fingers into the air and _pulling_. The soul thwangs like a ball on an elastic, and there is a horrible squeal. The rat's entire imagine wavers, a mirage evaporating into yellow desert air.

He is not prepared for the Grim (with a soul the size of a watermelon, but punctured and decayed in a way he has never seen before, almost as if the soul had become necrotic) to leap out of nowhere and grab the limp animal in its jowls. It races for the Whomping Willow. The first thick, knotted branch comes down at it.

"Wait a minute—"

It dodges with surprising agility. When it gets to the base of the tree, it presses its paw against a large, stubbly knot. The Willow locks in place, each branch quivering with sentient fury but unable to move. The dog looks back, almost as if pleading for him to follow, but he is not about to charge into certain death for the sake of satisfying his curiosity. After Harry stands motionless for a few seconds, its ears droop and it disappears into a hollow hidden by the Willow's roots.

That is when he hears the scream.

Then, "What are you doing here, Potter?"

Snape.

"...I was taking a walk…"

His sneer intensifies, face drawn into a rictus of stormy maleficence. "Go back."

"There was a scream." Although he doesn't really hate Snape, he possesses a healthy amount of wariness towards the professor. "A dog ran into the Whomping Willow...maybe that's what caused it?"

The last sentence is said casually, so it surprises him when Snape's head snaps up, sharp black eyes pinning him in place. "A dog?" he demands. "Describe it."

"Big, black. Shaggy fur... looked like the Grim. Had a rat in its mouth."

"Go back to the castle, Potter. I will deal with this."

"Sir?"

"Are you deaf as well as incompetent? Do as I say."

"Little Sevvy," a new voice cooes, its owner stepping out of the shadows. Snape spins around, and even in the dim light, Harry sees his skin turn a sickly, sour colour. "Are you a traitor as well as a coward?"

Harry does not know who throws the first curse, only that the two of them are suddenly whirling at each other, wands brandished. It is almost like a dance, their duelling styles clashing and merging all at the same time. Lestrange favours short, sharp jabs, guttural sounding spells that are designed to hurt. Snape's is more fluid, more intricate, and slower. But he knows it is not the first time they have fought against each other. No flashy spells. Only hatred. Only vengeance.

While Bellatrix is more vicious and unpredictable, her imprisonment has worn her down. Snape fights with the calculated mindset of a serpent, lashing out and retreating until she stumbles to one knee.

"The lord... will have your head... for your treachery!" she pants.

"The lord is dead," Snape says harshly. "You will follow."

And then her eyes narrow on Harry, who had retreated to the edge of the Whomping Willow's range, and was considering the best way to lure Bellatrix in. Her wand goes up—too late, Snape realizes, his head snapping back in horror—

The Grim slams into her, large claws tearing at her shoulders, fangs sinking into the flesh of her neck. She shrieks and the hissing purple spell collides with one of the Willow's branches, snapping it out of its frozen state. A branch wallops past Harry's head and sinks into the ground one meter away from the three of them. Snape takes the opportunity to send something sizzling with darkness in their direction, one hidden in the shadow of the other. The first catches Bellatrix in the chest; the second hits the Grim.

And the Grim's form changes, bones snapping, lengthening, fur disappearing on the arms and legs but growing into long, shaggy black hair. Bellatrix scrabbles weakly at the man who has his teeth sunk into her throat, wheezing, before Snape intones, " _Incarcerous_ ," and the ropes lash around her throat. Her eyes bulge, face turning purple, and when her flailing limbs stop moving she falls still.

"Black." It is spat like a curse.

"Snivelleus," says the man with blood smeared around his mouth and dripping down his neck into the ragged prisoner's clothing that clings to his skeletal frame. His eyes dart to Harry. "...it's been a long time..."

"Not long enough when you're back in Azkaban," he sneers.

"It wasn't me. I didn't kill them," says Black. "Not that you care. It was Peter... Peter the rat... the stinking, filthy—"

Snape levels his wand at the shaking, crumpled figure with a snarl. "I've heard enough of your lies. The Aurors are coming. You will face—"

"Professor!"

Too late.

A red light hits him in the back. He falls, unconscious.

"—Granger?!"

She blows a lock of hair out of her face, expression stony and determined. "Listen to what he has to say, Harry."

"What do you—where did you—"

Black suddenly barks a laugh. "I like this one. She your girlfriend?"

Instantly, Harry's bemusement turns into hostility. "That is not of your business," he spits. "It would have been if you hadn't killed my parents."

Bone weary, "I didn't. It was Peter."

"And what proof do you have?"

"All of us—your father, Peter, and I—we were Animagi. I am a dog. Your father was a stag. Peter is a rat. I think you better know him as Scabbers."

" _Scabbers_? Weasley's pet?"

"I had the slimy little vermin in my grasp, but Bella had—and I couldn't leave you there..." He deflates with a defeated sigh. "He is the proof I had. After Peter had—the Dark Lord came and I... I lost my head. I should have stayed, but I gave you to Hagrid and I went after him. He blew up the street, cut off a finger."

"Then why did you not plead innocent?"

Black smiles humorlessly. "I would have, if I had a trial in the first place."

Granger draws herself up, indignant despite herself. Kind, foolish, innocent Hermione. "You didn't get one? But surely, Dumbledore would have—"

"Dumbledore was the one who signed the warrant allowing for my imprisonment." Black's lips twist into a sickening leer. "So don't speak to me of that man."

"Swear an Unbreakable Oath now. Say that you did not kill my parents, or any of those Muggles, and you don't mean to harm me, Hermione, or Snape."

"I do wish you left off the last part."

" _Black_."

With an exaggerated sigh, Black says, "I have no wand. How will I perform it?"

Harry looks at Granger. She nods, lips pursed in determination. She raises hers to point between Black's eyes, and Harry flips his own over, offers it to Black.

"Make me regret this, and she'll put a hole through your head."

He takes it wordlessly and places the tip over his heart. "I, Sirius Orion Black, do swear that I am not the murderer of James Potter or Lily Potter, nee Evans. I currently have no intention to wilfully harm Harry James Potter..."

"Hermione Jean Granger," she supplies. Black nods to her.

"...Hermione Jean Granger, or Severus Snape. So mote it be."

A dark tendril of magic issues from the end and wraps around the three of them, then sinks over Black's heart. He drops his arm, holds the wand out. Harry takes it.

"Talk," he demands.

And Black does.

Granger is the first to notice the rat gnawing on the ropes constricting Lestrange's neck. Her eyes flare open in alarm, and she shouts, "Harry—!"

Harry aims a cutting curse at the rat, but it dodges nimbly out of the way, its task finished. Lestrange rolls to her feet fluidly, strangulation marks around her neck, veins purple blue. Although her breath is wheezy, she does not look like someone who was almost choked to death a second ago. She must have played dead for a long time.

Black stoops and plucks Snape's wand from between his stiff fingers. He grimaces. "Even his bloody wand feels oily." Then, to Harry. "I'll deal with _her_. You...get Pettigrew."

Harry's face sets into a stony expression. "Count on it. Granger?"

"I'm with you."

(And even though he knew this to be the case, hearing her say it with such blatant conviction loosens the tension winding in his chest).

They run.

"We need to make him human," she gasps out.

There is enough cold rage inside of him that he flicks his Sight on, no longer caring if Granger saw. The world flickers into dim, hazy colours. He hisses, "follow me," and dives into the underbrush after the dripping red aura. He reaches into himself and pulls. It is not nearly enough, but it does make Pettigrew falters, and Harry closes his fingers around the little beast. It scrabbles weakly at him. He only grits his teeth and presses tighter.

And then it begins to shift; a soft blue glow and its body elongates, torso narrowing and splitting into legs, arms, a weaselly, pointed face with beady eyes. One hand has a missing finger.

"He...wasn't lying," Granger breathes.

"No," he agrees softly. "He wasn't. _Incarcerous!_ "

"Come on. The Aurors must be coming. Let's get him back to the castle."

Harry gently curves the tip of his wand down a frozen Pettigrew's neck, the sharp point of his bony shoulder where joints jut out. "They're always coming. Always too late. They'd let him escape. No..." He removes his wand from Pettigrew's trembling body and wipes it on his tattered robes, then points it at one knee. "No. I have learned. What I want, I must do on my own. That is the only way to succeed. _Bombarda_."

"Harry!"

"Ahh— _urgk_!"

And Harry smiles slowly, heedless of the blood splattered across his face, wetting his lips. Pettigrew's eyes roll at the stump of his missing leg, cut off at the knee, the edges unclean and rough with blood and sinew and ragged, oozing bone.

"Harry, no," says Granger, sounding shaken. "This isn't you."

"On the contrary, Granger, this is entirely me. Pettigrew is the reason why I have no parents—had to live with the Dursleys. He claims to be dead, so why should I not grant his wish?"

"Because you will lose yourself in the process."

"...but, no," Harry continues, as if he hadn't heard. "It would be too easy. I don't want him to die. I want him to _suffer_." Suddenly reversing his grip on his wand, he viciously jabs it into a trembling wrist, where he can see frantically pulsing blue veins beneath pale flesh. " _Bombarda_."

The left hand explodes.

"Harry!" Granger says, and she sounds angry (terrified). "Please, stop! Please! Listen to me!"

"Not until I make him regret ever hearing my name."

"Do you want to sink to his level?"

"I lost what remained of my morality a long time ago. Don't try that one with me."

She takes a deep breath, clenches her fists. "Your parents wouldn't have wanted you to do this."

"They're dead. They wouldn't have wanted to be that, either. And if it means I have to break every bone in this rat's body, then I will do it. Besides..." His eyes snap open, red and terrible and alluring. "...Sirius Black was wrongly imprisoned for _his_ crimes. Do you want him to die instead?"

Granger gnaws on her lip in agitation, warring between her moral beliefs and trust in Harry. Finally, she closes her eyes in defeat.

"I... trust you. But Harry, please..."

He reaches up and softly touches her cheek. "I'm only making sure that justice is served."

There is a short, shrill cry from the direction they came. Harry looks over and sees the white mist spreading. Hissing in a breath, he says to Hermione, "Can you watch Pettigrew? I will go see what's happening." Her face is pale, streaked with grime, but she nods firmly and grips her wand tighter. Harry brushes the hair back from Pettigrew's sweaty face and leans down so his lips are caressing the shell of his ear. "It's going against every instinct to leave you alive. But I need you for the trial. Hurt Hermione and I will hurt you tenfold. I will _break_ you. There will be nowhere you can hide, _I will hunt you down_ like the rat you are to the ends of the earth and by god, not even Voldemort will protect you."

Pettigrew's only response is a whimper of pain. Harry stands up and wipes his palms on his soiled robes.

"Thank you, Hermione."

Her eyes soften. "Always."

He spares one last look at her. Then he begins to run into the mist, the coldness clinging to his arms, slithering down his spine. His preservation instincts scream at him to head back, but he grits his teeth and continues. He cannot leave Black and Snape there.

He bursts into the clearing.

Snape is still unconscious on the ground. Skirting around the two Blacks, who are wrestling with each other now, Harry casts a _wingardium leviosa_ on his body and levitates him into the forest, far enough to be safe. Then he returns to see that the two are still fighting, both slow and weakened.

The Dementors are floating across the field. Soon, they are within distance, and it is too late.

"Black!"

Gasping, Harry holds his head in his arms, pressing his palms against his forehead as if he can force back the visions, the cold white mist that drips like soured milk down his throat, thick and clinging.

"Black—Black, we must go, come on—"

"Harry..."

Black throws himself in front of Harry, drawing him back, but he, too, is shaking and wild-eyed, and soon he is the Grim, quivering and keening. Bellatrix stumbles, falls to her knees. She drags herself up, crawls away. Amidst the pain in his head, Harry hooks his elbows beneath Black's bony ribcage and follows suit. Bellatrix reaches the forest's edge, crawls in. But before Harry reaches it, the Dementors close in a circle around them.

 _"Kinsla-ayer..."_ they moan. _"Kin-n..."_

White fills his vision. He feels himself become lost in it.

Then a scene begins to form.

He is small, helpless, an infant hastily swaddled in a blanket.

 _"Lily... take Har—go..."_

Lips pressed to his forehead. His mother murmurs fervent prayers into his hair even as she rips her wrist open with a rusty nail and splashes her blood over the floors, igniting the runic circle engraved into the wood.

"Mummy loves you… Daddy loves you, baby, so much. So much."

The door blasts open.

 _I cannot… I must…_

A high, cold voice.

"Step aside, girl."

Gasping, she whirls around, dropping Harry into the crib and throwing her arms out over it. "No—no, please—"

But her eyes are fixed above Voldemort's shoulder, on something she could not see, only feel with all the dread of her heart. Harry follows her gaze and feels his breath catch. It is not Voldemort she fears. The new presence crawls under his skin, a sickly, cloying touch that leaves fire in its wake, permanently silencing the sickening fear, instinctive and feral, that wraps its fingers around his heart.

Then the darkness in front of his eyes begins to warp, distorting into waves that reminds him of the heat of cars on pavement in the height of summer.

The dying glow of the lights downstairs throw the being into illumination.

It is tall, taller than any human could ever hope to be, and as Harry watches, the flesh withers away to leave sharp angulations and skin that flicker and evaporate like achromatic fire. Its expression is feral, face slowly cracking into a savage Glasgow grin, from ear to ear, revealing fangs sleek and thick as Harry's fingers. He can feel the whisper-thin aura brushed its fingers against his arms, murmuring songs of dread and loss and loathing, a forewarning mere second before—

The aura, unrestrained, explodes from him in a tangible shockwave, as though the empty yearning of the Dementor's kiss, the finality of the Veil, the translucency of the battlefield are the screams of the endlessly tormented, the bite of fire and brimstone. He cannot look away; there is a scene there, one of barren grey battlefields, an eternal wasteland of lost hope and the last vestiges of paradise that whisper on the wind—empty, phantasmagorical promises whose breaking sounds like fire and ash and the sick sound of metal sliding through flesh. The being's face is only centimeters away from Lily's, their noses almost touching, and he can make out the rings around the eyes, black and grey with a white pupil, enlarged in what he gathered to be excitement. Swallowing through a suddenly dry throat, Harry knows who this is. They have met too many times, even if he did not remember.

And even if this is a dream, he whispers, "Death."

It hears him.

If possible, those lips curl even farther back, until all he can see are the teeth. Its laugh is a dark rumble that shook the ground beneath their feet, which was already cracking and blackening in pitted craters. In the same tone of voice, which Harry didn't hear so much as feel, Death rumbles, "Child." There is a rattling breath, and Harry feels every cell in his body turn to stone when a hand grips his chin, forcing his eyes upwards. "Your mother betrayed me. Your life is mine to command. Do you understand?"

Lily's image is still frozen in the memory, hair splayed around her shoulders, eyes as green as the avada kedavra that engulfs her, and he sees guilt there (I have condemned you).

"No," he says breathlessly, because it is impossible to lie to this creature.

Instead of anger, its lips curve further up.

"You will," it promises. It splays its fingers; a mirage forms in the mist. It is a mirror reflection of Harry.

And before his eyes, the image shifts; taller, older, eyes red as blood and colder than an arctic wasteland. He wears a ragged black robe and gently turns a wand in one slender-fingered hand. His aura is black as the void, carrying the scent of a wounded, cornered predator that has nothing left to lose.

Death says, "This is what you will become."

Future Harry raises his wand, aims it at the horde of Dementors, and murmurs, " _Expecto patronum._ "

The last thing Harry sees before darkness engulfs his vision once more is a molten black shape exploding from the end, eyes of hellfire and bringing with it the smell of ozone, of damnation.

[x]

He wakes in a hospital. The sheets are clean and crisp, and crumple when he clenches his fist into it. The ward is empty, and voices drift from the open hallway. Harry recognizes Snape, Cornelius Fudge, Dumbledore.

"—will be given the Dementor's Kiss immediately."

"Now, Cornelius," Dumbledore says genially. "Surely, there is not so much of a rush."

Snape, sounding like he is one hair's-breadth from losing his vaunted control, "What lies has Black fed you to sway your judgement so?"

"Quite right, of course," Fudge blusters.

"I do believe," Dumbledore says suddenly. "That the bickering of old men has woken Harry up." He sweeps into the room in an eyesore of bright purple robes with neon orange and yellow planets swirling around the fabric. Even without his glasses, Harry sees him immediately. With a kind smile, the headmaster says, "And how are you, my boy?"

But Harry remembers the bitterness in Black's voice, _I was cast off and discarded because he had no more use for me._ Harry remembers Riddle's voice, _he wishes to be more than your headmaster. That is why he is dangerous._

"I've been better."

There is a hunk of chocolate the size of a small boulder sitting on Harry's nightstand, along with a small hammer. Dumbledore breaks off a piece.

He says, "Professor..."

"Now, now. Nothing is more urgent than health. All of this can wait until you finish your chocolate."

He takes a bite and tries not to choke. Sickly sweetness lingers on his tongue. When he eats half of it and the other half has melted on his fingers, he wipes it away on a napkin and begins again, "Professor. Please know that I am in full control of my facilities. I saw Pettigrew, and I... I do not know if that makes Black innocent or guilty, but I do believe that nothing is as it seems."

Dumbledore raises a hand. "Harry..."

"I am not _mad_."

"I believe you."

"I do not think Fudge does."

"No, Cornelius has always been quite set in his own ways. And I am afraid Severus is blinded by his prejudices."

"It will take a small miracle for them to listen to reason."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkle. "Quite so. I do believe the solution lies with your young friend, Ms. Granger. Tell her that three turns ought to do it. And... good luck."

"I do not wish to involve her. I do not want to..." _Put her in more danger because of me. "_ She was there. Is she alright? Pettigrew, did she...?"

But Dumbledore only smiles. "Your friends may surprise you."

With that cryptic message in mind, he sweeps himself off the chair, smoothing out the wrinkles in his eyesore robes before exiting the infirmary without a backwards glance. In his place, Hermione shoots into the room in a blur of black robes.

"Harry!"

He winces. "Not so loud, please."

"You idiot!"

"I get enough of that from Malfoy on a daily basis."

Then she embraces him, and he wraps his arms around her and closes his eyes.

"Trouble always seems to find you," she mutters, her voice muffled. "I think we meet too many times in the ward."

" _I'm_ not the one who stunned the only defence we had against Black."

Her brow furrows. "What are you talking about?"

"You were there."

"No, I..." suddenly, her face clears. "I think you should start from the beginning."

With a deep breath, he tells her about Black, Pettigrew, Snape. To her credit, she only raises one eyebrow and listens attentively, hands clasped in her lap. When he gets to Dumbledore's message, she nods and pulls a necklace out from beneath her robes. It is a small golden hourglass.

"It's a time turner," she says in response to his inquisitive look. "Come on, it seems we have a godfather to save."

[x]

They land, feet first, in a broom closet.

"Urgh." Harry detaches himself from a row of broom handles and pulls a bucket (smelling suspicious) off his head. "That is not an experience I want to have again."

A dark shape sweeps by. Both fall silent. Then Granger peers out the door. "That was Professor Snape. Coast is clear. Come on, let's go."

"We'll have to split up. Follow Snape; he'll lead you to me. And Black. You'll have to stun Snape."

"And where will you go?"

"I know how to get Black out."

"Alright."

He goes to his dorms and crawls under the bed, retrieving the half-unwrapped package that he wedged between his suitcase and the wall. He stares at the words "Firebolt v.1" that gleams gold beneath the dust, and murmurs, "I swore to myself I would never ride a broom."

Then he pulls the Dementor's cloak from the pocket of his old cloak, unshrinks it. It smells faintly of death and decay. Wrinkling his nose, he wraps the broom in the cloak and sets off for the courtyard.

Once there, he looks around, makes sure no one is watching. Feeling rather stupid, he mounts the broom. He's never ridden one before. Sure, there were flying lessons in First Year, but it was optional so he never went. Now he's beginning to regret that decision. He pins the Dementor's cloak over his shoulders. It is big enough to fit over him, the broom, and drag on the ground.

Disguise in place. Now, the flying part...

He circles his hands over the front of the broom and pulls up cautiously. To his surprise, it begins to rise, albeit slowly. He pulls on it a little more and—

"Agh!"

It shoots into the sky. If not for his vice grip, he would have flipped right off the other end. By instinct, he clamps the front down, but then he plummets, faster and faster until the trees and surroundings are a dark blur. Swerve to the left, do a few barrel rolls, loops, spins that make him think he's going to throw up, until he finally manages to get control. He is dizzy and nauseous, and vaguely wonders if throwing up from a hundred meters in the air is socially acceptable. But there is a part of him that feels exhilarated, free, the wind forcing its way into his mouth when he breathes, choking him with it, filling his lungs until he feels like he will explode.

He angles the broom down and begins to make his way to the area. Already, Dementors are beginning to fly in. He tries to mimic their inhuman grace. Despite the cloak, some are already looking in his direction. He calls up his Sight, looks down at his hands, at the magic softly pulsing through his veins. _This is going to hurt,_ he grimaces to himself, and pulls the magic out of his limbs, his chest, forcing it all into his stomach. His head begins to hurt, vision wavering, arms weak, an insatiable hunger beginning to rise. He lets his vision return to normal.

The Dementors stop focusing on him.

He feels incredibly sick, but he trails after them, his wand clamped in his hand.

Below him, he sees Bellatrix run into the woods. Black stumbles and falls in front of Harry, arms splayed open. Harry himself was unconscious on the ground, lips tinged blue and slightly parted, a faint white mist issuing from them. His eyes are glassy and half open, but he seems to be looking at something beside Harry... something he cannot truly see.

He remembers the apparition he saw clearly—his mother, Death, and...

He raises his wand. Thinks of happy things, bright summer days. " _Expecto patronum_."

Nothing happens.

The magic contained in his stomach begins to pulse in agitation, trying to return to its regular path. " _Expecto patronum. Expecto... patronum."_

There is a wheezing sound. One Dementor —bold, brash— has swept forward and caught Black into a close embrace. He shifts from the Grim into a human once more, his chin hooked between skeletal fingers. The Dementor pulls its hood back, revealing those horrible eye-less sockets closed over with tightly stretched flesh, a toothless, gaping hole, a void of a mouth, an empty abyss.

His magic, no longer contained, explodes out of him in a fiery, visible light. Anger, desperation, rage fuels him, and he throws his wand out at the Dementor and roars, " _EXPECTO PATRONUM!"_

And a sleek black shape shoots out of the end, something with claws of solid steel and eyes of liquid red hellfire, its body dripping and smoking in the grass as it leaps forward with a tensing of powerful muscles, tearing into the Dementor, driving it back. Where its claws rake, smoke rises from the stinking flesh. The Dementors begin to scatter reluctantly, survival instinct warring with their primal hunger. It slashes at their feet, their torsos, until they take to the skies and flee.

Harry lands from the broom. His legs are shaky. He raises one hand and calls the patronus back to him. It prowls closer with all of a predator's slow, loping gait. Its paws leave smoking imprints in the wet ground. He is only chest level with it, and as he watches, it lowers its great, majestic head and stares at him with one baleful red eye. There is nothing inside it, no rage or emotion, only an empty hole consumed with flame. He cups his palm against the side of its face; it leans into his touch with a heavy purr that makes his body vibrate. Its fangs are curved wickedly into its mouth and coated with thick, black tar —Dementor's blood— but when it bares them, Harry knows it is smiling. It curls its tail around Harry's wrist affectionately.

"I have waited long for you," he murmurs, letting his hand trail down the soft, silky fur of its neck, fire dripping onto the ground.

With a final, lingering breath that makes Harry's hair stand on end, it dissipates into fog.

Past Harry is still unconscious on the ground, but Black is already beginning to wake. He seems a Dementor-like creature standing over him, holding a broom, and says flatly, "Am I hallucinating, or did you suck my soul?"

Harry pushes back his hood. Black's eyes widen. "How about neither?"

"Harry!" He looks at the other Harry. "But..."

"Time is a mysterious thing," he says wryly. "Now come on, do you want to go or not?"

"It's the broom I got you..."

"Oh, that was you? I don't fly."

"And yet you did."

"Desperate times."

"Your father loved to..."

"I am not my father."

Black is silent. He observes Harry quietly, and then a bitter, dry smirk twists his lips. "No," he agrees softly. "You're not. I would still like to get to know you."

"I would like to keep in touch. But you really need to go."

A small, genuine smile breaks out on the man's haggard face. He mounts the broom. It is a shaky start, but ingrained confidence smooths his actions, and Black looks like this is the first breath of freedom he has had in twelve years. Harry clasps the Dementor's cloak around his thin shoulders, mutters, "You can disguise yourself until you get out of city limits. Then take it off."

"You know," Black says. "You may not be like your parents, but I know for a fact that they would be damned proud."

(My parents would be writhing in their graves if they knew what went on in my mind.)

Harry pauses, raises his hand in a final salute. Black returns the gesture, and Harry watches until he is nothing more than a speck in the distant horizon.

There is a short groan. Snape begins to stir. Harry hides behind a tree. Snape looks around for his wand, then sees the other Harry. There are many emotions on his face, and if Harry were not paying close attention he would not have been able to see it. Even so, it flashes by too fast for him to categorize them all. The predominant one is panic and fear (guilt). He scoops Harry into his arms, surprisingly gentle, and all but runs for the castle.

When he is out of sight, Harry picks his way back into the Forbidden Forest, towards Hermione. He almost gets lost a few times, and has to turn his Sight on to see where they are hidden. He stumbles over a log that is not a log because it lets out a pitiful moan, and there is a wand pressed beneath his chin.

"Who are you?" says Hermione coldly.

"Harry."

"Prove it. What's the password."

He frowns. "We never set a password."

She lets go. Harry turns around, freezing slightly when he catches sight of all the blood splattering across her face, her pink sweater, the icy, frightened gleam in her eyes. She must see his dark expression because she says, "It's not mine."

"Pettigrew tried to escape?" He kicks the prone man viciously.

"Tried to," she agreed. "I... I broke his other arm and leg."

"Good." With that, he points his wand in Pettigrew's bloody, swollen face, and hisses, " _Stupefy. Wingardium leviosa."_

The body rises slowly, bits of grass and leaves sticking to him until gravity takes over. Harry inspects the crooked leg, the out-of-place shoulder.

"For a pacifist, you did quite a number on him."

She flushes. "Do we have somewhere to be, or what?"

The journey back to the castle is spent in cautious silence. They stick to the shadows. When they reach the edge of the castle, Harry says, "Dumbledore's in the infirmary right now, talking to me."

"Then that's where we'll go."

She pushes open the door and mutters a polite, "Excuse me," to Filch, who is mopping the corridor, staring at her, then Harry with wide eyes when he levitates a bloody body after him. Harry is expecting Dumbledore to lecture him, to reprimand him about his use of violence, but the old man merely stares at him with sad, haunted eyes —and somehow his disappointment cuts deeper— and says, "Thank you, Harry. I'll take it from here."

"He's a rat animagus," Harry warns as he exchanges the spell. "That's how he escaped the first time."

"He will not escape again. Now, in you go." Dumbledore opens the infirmary door and shoos him in. "I daresay you have done something good today. And you, Ms. Granger. Well done."

[x]

In comparison, the end of the year is very anticlimatic. After exams, they climbed aboard the Hogwarts Express. Malfoy deigns to join the three of them; or rather, he bolts into the compartment and dives beneath the seat, only a muffled, "Hide me," as their explanation.

When the door opens again, it is to two Slytherin boys who look like they have half a brain between the two of them but try to make it up their density with muscle mass.

"You seen Draco?" one grunts.

The three of them look at each other. "No," they say simultaneously.

The door slams shut. After a moment, Malfoy climbs out with dignity, smoothing his hair down. "Merlin, I thought I had lost them."

"Paid goons?" Harry says in amusement. "Surely, they can't count as friends."

He grimaces. "My father..."

"Say no more."

Malfoy looks between Harry and Hermione. "What's with the two of you?" he says bluntly. "You've been calling her _Hermione_ for the last few weeks. But I'm still _Malfoy_ and _he's_ still _Longbottom."_

"Is that jealousy I detect, _Draco?"_

Malfoy shudders a little. "I retract my statement."

They bicker goodnaturedly for a while, until there is a _tap-tap-tap_ on the window. Harry looks up and there is a little ball of fluff slamming against it, struggling to keep up. He opens it and it tumbles into Longbottom's lap.

"There's a letter," he says, and pulls it off. "It's for you."

Harry takes it.

 _Dear Harry,_

 _Just wanted you to know, everything's well. See you soon._

 _Love,_

 _Snuffles_

 _P.S. Keep the owl, if you'd like._

Reading over his shoulder, Hermione whispers, " _What?_ They haven't cleared him yet!"

He folds it up and tucks it into his pocket. "I don't know, but we didn't go through all of that for nothing. I hope he knows what he's doing." He holds up the little owl perched on his finger, its big eyes taking up half of its body. Hermione practically melts. "I already have Hedwig. She's very territorial...sometimes I think she believes I'm _her_ human. Do you want it?"

"Oh, but I have Crookshanks already."

"Crookshanks can't carry letters. It'll be easier for you to keep in contact with us." He quirks his lips wryly. "And maybe then Dudley will stop trying to steal my mail."

Malfoy looks between the two of them, perturbed. "There is definitely something going on between those two," he mutters into Longbottom's ear, sinking further into his seat. "Merlin help me, I don't want to witness this."

"Shut up, Malfoy." Harry gingerly unlatches the owl's claws from his finger and transfers it to Hermione, who immediately begins to coo over it, rubbing under its feathery chin until its eyes close into a happy crescent.

"Thank you, Harry. I think I'll name him Mercury."

When they reach the station, the four of them disembark, Malfoy still keeping a wary eye out for his two goons. "I guess I'll see you lot next year." To Harry, he says, "My father would like to invite you to the Manor sometime, if that is amenable. I will send arrangements via owl." Without waiting for an answer, he nods to them and leaves.

"I don't think no is an answer to Malfoys."

Longbottom looks at the two of them and says shyly, "You guys can come over too, if you want. There's not much to do, but..."

Hermione smiles brightly. "Thank you, Neville. I'll be sure to visit you sometime. My parents are here. I'll have to go, but keep in touch and take care of yourselves." She gives them both a hug and disappears into the crowd.

Soon, Harry is alone, his trunk by his feet, Hedwig's cage on top of it. He watches (wistfully) as parents greet their children with hugs and tears.

That is, until a big black dog tackles him and slobbers all over his face.

"Eeugh, what the hell—Si...er, Padfoot?"

The Grim pants happily. Lowering his voice, Harry whispers, "What are you doing here! It's dangerous! They still haven't gotten Pettigrew through the—ew, Sirius, stop licking me, you have dog breath, you're a full grown man and _you're licking my face._ "

His godfather has the audacity to laugh at him with crinkled black eyes. Harry sighs, and reluctantly lets a small smile curl onto his mouth, and he scratches beneath his ear, making Sirius's tail flop against the ground.

"The Dursleys are not going to like this, but... come on, Padfoot."

Obediently, the dog trails after him, occasionally brushing against his leg and leaving copious amounts of black fur behind. While he waits for Uncle Vernon's car, he lets his hand fall to Padfoot's soft head, and thinks that this is the closest to home he's ever felt.

[x]

* * *

 **AN** : What animal do you think Harry's not-patronus is?


End file.
